Where meaning collapses: a creative exploration of the role of humour and laughter in trauma
by
SYLVIA ALSTON
University of Canberra ACT 2601
A creative thesis submitted in fulfilment of the requirements of the
Degree of Doctor of Philosophy in Communication at the University of Canberra
October 2009
Title of thesis: Where meaning collapses: a creative exploration of the role of humour and laughter in trauma.
Title of creative component: A bubblegum forest
Research question: Given the frequently stated claims that humour is universally good, what function does humour serve in dealing with pain and how can that be represented in fiction?
Sylvia Alston
© October 2009
ii ABSTRACT
The thesis consists of a full-length novel and an exegesis that examines the ways in which humour can be used to restore the symbolic order and serve as a means of regaining control, thus allowing those involved in the most disturbing, painful and challenging situations to feel less powerless.
The research component of the thesis involved critical reading, fieldwork, observations, and personal interviews. The texts examined include works by Michael Billig, Henri Bergson and Julia Kristeva, in particular her reference to the act of laughing at the abject as a kind of horrified ‘apocalyptic laughter’, a compulsion to confront that which repels (Kristeva 1982, pp. 204-206). As part of the fieldwork, I completed training to become a Laughter Club leader. Laughter Clubs are based on the notion that laughter, even fake laughter, is beneficial. This concept is explored in more detail in the exegesis. The fieldwork also included training in laughter-generating activities for students and staff at two local primary schools. The observational component, which involved the Australian War Memorial, the ‘Reveries: Photography and Mortality’ exhibition, Norwood Crematorium and the children’s garden and babies’ rose garden at the Gungahlin cemetery, enabled me to examine images and memories of death as well as the responses of other visitors. The final component of my research involved personal interviews. The participants in these interviews were drawn from a diverse range of fields including: volunteers at a local hospice, hospital clowns, general practitioners, cancer survivors and their carers, a psychiatrist, nurses, a paramedic, a police officer, a hospital teacher and bereaved parents.
The findings from this research provided the framework for the creative piece, a novel set in present-day Canberra. The story begins one autumn evening when thirteen-year-old Sam is found unconscious and bleeding from a head wound. By the time Maggie, Sam’s widowed mother, arrives at the hospital, Sam has regained consciousness. His x-rays show a large mass in his brain and he is kept in for further tests. The results confirm that Sam has an inoperable tumour. Maggie and Sam rely on humour in their interactions both with each other and with other people as a means of maintaining that ‘baseline of social control’ (Kristeva 1982, p. 99), staying on the edge of what Kristeva refers to as the place ‘where meaning collapses’ (p. 2).
iii Humour is their anchor, enabling them to maintain a grip on their new normality. And, as if having a dying child isn’t enough to cope with, Maggie is being pursued by a handsome and slightly younger man.
Both the findings in my exegesis, and the creative work they led to, suggest that although there has been an enormous amount of research undertaken over the previous thirty or so years, there is no conclusive proof that humour can be closely correlated with health. At best, humour can provide a means of controlling that which would otherwise be outside our control.
iv
vi ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This thesis would not have been completed without the inspiration, encouragement, advice and assistance of so many people.
The first person to thank is Paul Magee, my primary supervisor, who not only provided helpful comments and criticism to my work but who also made me believe I could do it.
I must thank the other members of my supervisory panel, Greg Battye and Jen Webb, for keeping me on track. Thanks too to Maureen Bettle and Jordan Williams who generously supplied insightful and creative suggestions and, more importantly, provided motivation and encouragement.
I also want to thank the participants whose stories informed the creative component of my thesis. Without these often painful and traumatic stories this work would not exist.
Last but not least, I thank my family and friends who read and re-read countless drafts of my thesis. Like me, you must be relieved that the beast has finally been put to bed.
vii TABLE OF CONTENTS
ABSTRACT...... iii ACKNOWLEDGMENTS...... vii TABLE OF CONTENTS...... viii EXEGESIS...... 10 INTRODUCTION...... 10 Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin...... 10 The mystery of humour...... 13 CHAPTER 1 LITERATURE REVIEW ...... 15 More than words...... 15 Rules and roles for readers and writers ...... 15 Readerly and writerly texts ...... 17 Fiction...... 18 Non-fiction ...... 19 Humour in literature...... 19 CHAPTER 2 HUMOUR AND LAUGHTER...... 28 What is humour? ...... 28 Humour and laughter...... 28 What is laughter?...... 29 Laughter and sadness ...... 30 Types of humour ...... 36 Black humour ...... 37 Self-deprecating humour...... 38 Heroic humour...... 40 Humour as a social function...... 41 Timing ...... 42 Summary ...... 44 CHAPTER 3 RESEARCH METHODOLOGY...... 45 Qualitative research...... 45 Fieldwork ...... 46 Observations...... 47 Ethics clearance...... 47 Theory of humour analysis...... 48 Interviews...... 48 Selecting participants ...... 49 How to express the findings in a fictional form...... 52 The creation of a fictional work ...... 54 What the research did not examine ...... 54 CHAPTER 4 RESEARCH FINDINGS ...... 56 Humorists and agelasts...... 56 Overall findings...... 57 The benefits of humour ...... 58 Abjection, humour and control...... 58 Humour as a coping mechanism ...... 60 Other coping mechanisms ...... 62 Reducing stress and pain...... 63 Enhanced communication ...... 63 The role of black/in-house humour ...... 64
viii Humour research ...... 65 Laughter Clubs ...... 66 What happens at a Laughter Club? ...... 68 Summary ...... 70 CHAPTER 5 THE CREATIVE PIECE...... 72 Humour and fiction ...... 73 Research-based fiction ...... 73 Style and tone...... 74 Characters...... 75 Stranger than fiction...... 77 Turning reality into fiction ...... 77 Apocalyptic laugher ...... 79 Conclusion...... 82 SUMMARY OF PARTICIPANTS...... 84 REFERENCES...... 83 A BUBBLEGUM FOREST ...... 83
ix EXEGESIS
Life does not cease to be funny when someone dies any more than it ceases to be serious when someone laughs. George Bernard Shaw
INTRODUCTION
Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin My earliest, and happiest, memories of growing up in the North of England are of listening to someone telling me a story. As my mother rarely had time to read to me during the day this activity was generally confined to bedtime. Unfortunately, that was also when my younger brother demanded attention. My father was rarely home for bedtime reading so I often went to bed without my promised story. This parental neglect was mitigated to some extent by a daily dose of the radio program Listen with Mother (BBC 1950 to 1982). The show began with the phrase ‘Are you sitting comfortably? Then we'll begin’, and for fifteen blissful minutes every weekday afternoon a faceless someone would read aloud while I sat comfortably entranced.
It was my love for and of storytelling that stimulated my interest in writing and it was my interest in the ways people use humour that prompted me to write a story about the role of humour in helping people to cope with pain and trauma. For many years I have worked in health related areas and I have also performed funeral ceremonies as a civil celebrant. During this time I noticed that some people drew on humour to help them deal with physical or emotional pain. I felt the need to further explore this phenomenon. I therefore set out to test the alleged benefits of humour with a specific focus on the relationship between humour and pain. My research included examining a number of current and historical theories and constructs of humour. I also examined the role of contemporary fiction in raising awareness of serious issues and facilitating social change.
The research involved interviewing people living and working in challenging situations. Participants included bereaved parents, cancer survivors, carers, and palliative care workers. My overall aim was to capture the essence of a story based on real events and real people. The challenge was to capture the essential elements of the research, and synthesise the separate parts into a realist fictional entity.
10 My decision to examine the role of humour was based on my interest in the notion that laughter is universally beneficial; that having a sense of humour plays an integral role in establishing and maintaining physical and emotional well being as well as providing a means of stress relief and enhancing communication.
The findings of my research provide the framework for my creative piece, a story about a young widow, Maggie, whose only child, Sam, has been diagnosed with cancer. The loss of a child is a traumatic experience and when that loss is the result of an illness such as cancer there is something even more poignant. Cancer, more often than not, is a slow killer. Family and friends are helpless; the child is the one experiencing the pain and discomfort of surgery and countless medical procedures, the after-effects of chemotherapy and radiation therapy. But they are still children; even though they are seriously ill they can still experience joy and laughter.
Humans are conceived, born and grow into adulthood. We reproduce, grow old and die. When something challenges that accepted order, such as the death of a child, we step outside our normal, comfortable boundaries, and defer to the abject which is a reminder of our human/animal nature. We go to that place ‘where meaning collapses’, where the situation is beyond our control (Kristeva 1982, p. 2). This situation, Kristeva explains, occurs when ‘man strays on the territories of animal’ (1982, p. 12). In other words, it serves as a reminder of the fragility of life, that no matter how sophisticated life appears to be in the technologically advanced climate of the twenty-first century, we are still animals, with the same basic needs (food, shelter, sex) and fears as other animals. Humans, unlike other animals, are aware of their mortality and can choose to use humour to confront their fear of death.
In my creative piece, Maggie uses humour to help her cope when she is continuously challenged by abjection (1982, pp. 11–13 & 54). In Maggie’s case, Sam has become the abject. His body has started to decay as the cancer spreads, destroying it from the inside. This pre-deceased condition provides Maggie with an opportunity to anticipate the grieving process as well as a means of facing the baseness of life and choosing how to cope with a world gone mad. Humour is Maggie’s attempt to restore the symbolic order, a means of taking control of a situation that would otherwise place her in what Kristeva describes as the borderlands, the last frontier between the world she usually inhabits and a place that is outside the norm (Kristeva 1982, p. 55). Maggie and Sam choose not to be passive participants in the
11 experience of dying; instead they choose to ‘rage against the dying of the light’ (Thomas 1952, p. 159) and to create a new world with new meanings. In short, they have accepted the absurdity of their lives and have chosen to stick out their tongues at the face of death.
I chose to write a fictional piece rather than a work of social research because I consider a work of creative fiction to be the most appropriate mechanism to illustrate the findings of my research and one that has the potential to be accessible to a wider audience. British academic and author, Patricia Duncker (2008), supports the role of fiction, describing it as: ‘the space in which we live our lives.’ Fiction can frame or reframe our perception of reality. In acting as a mirror on what is happening in the real world fiction can be less threatening than a news report, a fact sheet, or an item on the Internet. ‘This space’, this fictional synthesis of the act of living, can also be a means of raising awareness of serious issues and facilitating social change, a responsibility taken on by writers such as Thomas Hardy, Charles Dickens, and Elizabeth Gaskell. As well as being a call to action, a work of fiction can also be a way to provide an explanation, or to leave an enduring legacy.
Telling stories transcends all levels of society where ‘universal, cultural and individual levels are tied together with narrative threads’ (Bury 2001, p. 264). Barthes shares this notion of a universality of stories claiming they ‘appear in every genre, spoken, written, and in different mediums such as stained glass. They exist in every age, in every place, in every society; it begins with the very history of mankind and there nowhere is nor has been a people without narratives… It is simply there, like life itself’ (1977, p. 79). As Mark Johnson points out: ‘Not only are we born into complex communal narratives, we also experience, understand, and order our lives as stories that we are living out’ (1987, pp. 171-172). Thus fiction can serve as a means of exploring reality, even a grim reality.
I decided to focus on the twin themes of cancer and humour because of the increased interest in these subjects and the publication of memoirs that explore the positive benefits of humour by cancer survivors, such as Cancer Schmancer by American comedian Fran Drescher (2002). Cancer patients face a terrible interlude between learning that death is inevitable and death itself. Professor Jim McGuigan, Loughborough University, suggests that older cancer patients may see this period as an opportunity to ‘round off their lives’ but this doesn’t apply to young patients. Some older people — and their families — may find a neatness in knowing they have a limited time left; they can settle their affairs, reflect on their achievements,
12 reconcile with family and friends, and say goodbye. Many younger people, however, may not see this period as ‘concluding the narrative of their lives’ (McGuigan, 2005, pers. comm., 9 March). There is no sense of resolution, just of something ending before its time. On the other hand, Kűbler-Ross notes that even for very young patients an illness such as cancer allows their families and friends to experience what she calls ‘anticipatory grief’ (1974, p. 99). Although this period is traumatic, it can help families to accept the inevitable. They are able to resolve any outstanding issues with the dying person and say their goodbyes. This would not be possible in a case of sudden death. In addition, the ‘anticipatory grief’ process can make the ‘post death grief’ period shorter than with an unexpected death (p. 99). Although Knapp supports the somewhat dubious advantages of providing parents with the opportunity to adjust to the impending death of their child, he notes that ‘anticipatory grieving’ is usually possible ‘only if the parent is able to face [the] potential death’ of their child (1986, p. 49). The inevitable death of a child is not something that most parents would find easy to accept. Parents faced with this situation may move to a place ‘where meaning collapses’. There they confront the abject, their dying child, what Kristeva calls the ‘in-between, the ambiguous’ (1982, pp. 2 & 4). It may be challenging to shift to a position of acceptance. Humour, however, may provide a means to confront the abject.
Abjection is a continuous offering, a constant reminder of mortality. A parent faced with the death of their child continually confronts the abject. Not deferring to abjection would mean letting the abject dominate. Finding a way to control, to defer, means constantly pasting over that great black hole of the abject with a veneer of humour, enabling the parent to reach across the void to touch their dying child on the other side.
The mystery of humour Humour is a fascinating topic but like some mythical creature it has so many arms and legs that it is hard to see the body of the beast, never mind getting hold of it to see what it’s made of. It was easy to set off along one path, for example, my involvement with the Laughter Club movement, and to focus on just one characteristic of the humour beast, and a biased one at that. The difficulty is that humour is ephemeral. It is also contextual, situational, and personality specific.
Put simply, humour is a cognitive process that has different meanings for, and provokes different responses in, different people. The ability to find pleasure in an amusing event,
13 whether a joke or some other form of humorous incident, can ‘serve as a fast test of one’s cognitive well-being’ (Zunshine 2006, p. 18). On the other hand, there are many ways in which the use of humour can have a negative impact, for example, in the workplace or a social setting where it is used as a putdown. Applying a cognitive approach to humour has some limitations since, unless the practitioner is an experienced comedian, it is not always possible to identify in advance an individual’s cognitive frame, that is, how they will respond to a particular or any type of humour in a given situation. Gender, race, culture, life experiences, education, occupation and social class can affect the way in which people perceive and respond to the world, including the world of humour.
In practice, my research involved listening actively and empathetically to my participants’ experiences, undertaking fieldwork and observing how people respond when faced with reminders of their mortality, for example, when visiting a cemetery or at the Australian War Memorial. I also undertook an extensive review of relevant literature, both fiction and non-fiction. Although the framework for the thesis is based on a philosophical approach, there are also elements of a cognitive approach to the research and to the literature review.
The following chapters provide a review of the literature examined and an outline of the research methodology. The middle chapter contains the support for the thesis — an examination of the nature and purpose and humour, in particular the role of humour in helping people cope with pain and trauma. There is also a summary of the findings as well as an overview of the process for producing the creative piece.
14 CHAPTER 1 LITERATURE REVIEW
This chapter provides an overview of the literature I examined to provide the framework and context for the research and the background for my creative piece. The review includes current and canonical literature, both fiction and non-fiction, to examine the extent to which humour is used in painful and traumatic situations as well as contemporary attitudes towards death and dying.
More than words The act of writing, of setting down words — the building blocks of language — on a piece of paper, is more than an academic process, more than a means of disseminating information about the world around us (Foucault 1973). Likewise, literature1 is more than a collection of words forming grammatically correct sentences — with apposite spelling and punctuation — that then become paragraphs and chapters. Literature, rather, is a vehicle that enables writers to create their view of the world, to present a new understanding of the way things are or how they could be.
Rules and roles for readers and writers There is an old conundrum that if a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it fall, does it make a noise? This riddle could also apply to those writers whose stories are either unread or misread. Although Duncker (2008) claims that: ‘The writer doesn’t exist unless the reader is there’, I would argue that as writers are also readers, they are the first readers of their work and are therefore able to hear the tree fall, even though it may sound differently to subsequent readers. Australian author David Malouf supports this position, noting that, for a time, the writer’s voice becomes that of the ‘willing reader’ (2006, p. 28). Malouf adds that the reader’s fictional experience is ‘no less personal and real than what we experience in the real world’ (p. 28). This notion of the real world is becoming somewhat blurred. Apparently we humans ‘spend much time engaged with carefully crafted narrative products such as films, novels, plays, and TV dramas’ and, while doing so, ‘we undergo a form of experience not found elsewhere, reacting to represented events as if we were a part of them’ (Mar & Oatley 2008,
1 I use the term literature to include genre and non-genre fiction as well as works of non-fiction. I have not attempted to distinguish between works of literary merit and the other sort. It is not that I am a literary snob — I enjoy crime fiction or a good thriller — using the single word ‘literature’ to cover both categories is merely a means of simplification. I should add that the term ‘non-genre fiction’ is applied loosely as I have included young adult fiction in this category.
15 p. 173). This response to ‘represented events’ is illustrated, for example, by the distress shown at the ‘death’ of a popular fictional character, such as Constable Grace Barry in Channel Ten’s Rush. This phenomenon isn’t new; in Dickens’s time readers wept over the death of Little Nell in The Old Curiosity Shop.
According to Duncker, the relationship between the writer and reader is ‘a contract’ in which ‘the reader is the person constructed by your text’ (2008). In other words, the writer prescribes the reader, a mythical creature who sits ‘out there’ but who may one day take the writer’s text and create a meaning outside what the writer intended. The reader is free to interpret the writer’s text in whatever way suits them. They can also play around with the characters, re-inventing them to fit their view of the world, trying to guess their ‘hidden mental states’ (Zunshine 2006, pp. 24-25). Zunshine adds that readers enjoy ‘such stimulation and need it as a steady supplement to our daily social interactions.’ Even a misinterpretation of the ‘protagonist’s thoughts and feelings’ does not spoil the reader’s ‘cognitive satisfaction allowed by the reading of fiction’ (pp. 24-25). Although Zunshine is noted for her cognitive approach to literature, I chose not to adopt this approach. I did, however, note Rimmon-Kenan’s observation that: ‘By the end of the reading process, the reader usually will have reached a “finalized hypothesis”, an overall meaning which makes sense of the text as a whole’ (2002, p. 122). In other words, the reader can still enjoy a book even if their interpretation differs from what the author intended, or from that of other readers. From a personal perspective, part of the pleasure of reading is talking about the book afterwards to others who have also read it. This raises another interesting discourse about the solitary nature of reading, which is beyond the scope of the present study. Rimmon-Kenan’s observation, however, was invaluable when I began writing my creative piece: I was careful to reduce any ambiguity in meaning to ensure the reader’s interpretation of the story was what I intended.
The ‘contract’ (Kundera 1996b; Duncker 2008) between writer and reader is usually established before the reader starts to interpret the text. The first few pages of a novel generally establish the setting, introduce one or more major characters, and set up an expectation on the part of the reader. Certain genres, such as crime fiction or romance, have to meet certain criteria to fulfil this expectation. There may be twists, red-herrings and literary ramblings along the way but the climax, so to speak, has to satisfy the reader’s demands. A surprise ending can either delight or disappoint. This is less of an issue in non-genre fiction
16 where the predicability or otherwise of the ending depends on the writer’s skill in foreshadowing. Although the ‘contract’ is easier to establish in genre fiction than in non-genre works, there are some literary exceptions. For example, Kundera considers that like the opening of Rabelais’s Gargantua and Pantagruel, the beginning of Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses establishes an immediate bond with the reader, proclaiming from the outset what the book is about:
Like Rabelais, Rushdie knows that the contract between the novelist and the reader must be established from the outset; it must be clear: the story being told here is not serious, even though it is about the most dreadful things (1996b, p. 33).
In both Rushdie’s and Rabelais’s novels the reader is left in no doubt that they are embarking on a bumpy literary journey where the comic and the grotesque do more than hold hands under the table. My creative piece is also about a dreadful thing, the death of a child. Unlike Rushdie, however, my story is serious. The beginning of the piece sets out that this is a story to be taken seriously, although humour is used to lighten the tone for the reader.
Readerly and writerly texts According to Foucault, it doesn’t matter who the author is as the reader is indifferent to their (the author’s) credentials (1991, p. 462). Barthes is similarly clear about the role of the writer, claiming that ‘the goal of literary work (of literature as work) is to make the reader no longer a consumer, but a producer of the text’ (1975, p. 4). Barthes claims that most literature is what he calls ‘readerly texts’, what would now be called popular fiction. On the other hand, a ‘writerly text’ is ourselves writing; it stands outside the process of creation; it offers itself up to be interpreted by the reader who is ‘a producer of the text’ (p. 4) and, because it is beyond words and meaning, it generates feelings of jouissance (pp.-4-5). Some ‘writerly texts’ can be challenging for some readers who have to work hard to identify the meaning of the text. My aim was to produce a work of fiction that is easily accessible to those who want to read it. I thus chose to write a readerly rather than a writerly text (p. 2) because this is a story that wants to be read and because, as I discuss in later chapters, a readerly text allowed me the most ethical use of material gathered in my primary research.
17 Fiction Creative writers have the ability ‘to abstract social information so that it can be better understood, generalized to other circumstances, and acted upon’ (Mar and Oatley 2008, p. 173). That is, fiction can present material in an easily understood format that can stimulate the reader and, perhaps, bring about a change in attitude or behaviour. At least the reader may be better informed. Fiction can also provide the reader with a sense of distance. No matter how accurately and sensitively the author tells their story it is the author’s story, not that of the reader. Unlike memoir, fiction allows the reader to ignore or discount those passages that do not resonate with their situation. Readers can disregard any negative aspects while focusing on the writer’s positive experience. In this sense, books can be like a good friend, telling us only what we want to hear. A line in the beautifully poignant film I’ve Loved You So Long claims that ‘books are better than people’ (2008).
While examining options to resolve this dilemma I recognised that fiction writers are in an anomalous position because, unlike writers of non-fiction, such as historians, their craft is to create a new reality, a different view of the world, or, at the very least, to embellish an existing truth. Paradoxically, when that creativity has a basis in fact the author must ensure both the authenticity of the material and its authorial integrity. Historians, on the other hand, claim that their work is based on research although that research may include material many times removed from the original source. Historian Mark McKenna from the Australian National University has labelled Kate Grenville's The Secret River ‘fictive history’ (Sullivan 2006, p. 2). McKenna goes on to defend the case for historians with the self-deprecatory claim that ‘There is an implied sense that historians have let the nation down, that they have descended into snarling bands, and it is fiction that must now save the day’ (p. 2). Surely writing history is open to claims that it is also writing fiction? As Mink observes: ‘History does not as such differ from fiction’ other than when ‘it is obligated to rest upon evidence of the occurrence in real space and time of what it describes’ (1970, p. 545).
The relative merits of fact versus fiction were the subject of a debate that took place at the 2006 Melbourne Writers’ Festival. The debate concluded that ‘Truth may be stranger than fiction but fiction adds more to life.’ Novelist and playwright Antoni Jach, summing up the case for fiction, said: ‘the audience were convinced they did not want to live in the world of facts’ while Jeff Sparrow, on the side of non-fiction writers, argued that the problem with fiction writers is that ‘They make stuff up’ (2006). While my creative piece is, by definition,
18 made up, it is based on facts, on real life experiences. My role was to weave the facts and fictional elements into a work of realistic creative prose. The essential elements of the story, though, are the truths identified through social research. This, then, was my motivation to write a work of fiction.
Non-fiction Having decided to produce a work of fiction, I nevertheless included non-fiction in the literature to be examined to provide background and insight on existing research and theoretical perspectives. Among these was Blanchot’s ‘Literature and the Right to Death’ in which he casts doubt on the writer’s ability to understand death and to write about it, arguing that: ‘dying is unimportant and death has no depth’ (1949/1995, pp. 320-321). I found this an interesting slant on the subject and relevant to my area of research, dealing as it does with writing about the most painful of subjects: death. Blanchot’s premise is that everything that is written is an abstract form of reality. Only death, Blanchot claims, is a real and literary absolute:
Death alone allows me to grasp what I want to attain; it exists in words as the only way they can have meaning. Without death, everything would sink into absurdity and nothingness (p. 324).
The challenge for me, as the writer, is to present a written death as a reality for the reader, to make it a ‘literary absolute’. Blanchot examines the philosophical relationship between literal and physical death, comparing it with the writer’s act of creation. In other words, for the writer, dying is a physical act as well as a literal event in which the writer creates a character and allows that character to die. This creation/destruction dichotomy echoes reality because we live our lives conscious that ‘Death is ever present’ (p. 391). We are all waiting in that space between life and death. Although death itself may not be something to be feared, the idea of death is terrifying. It is this that makes us examine our place in the universe (p. 392).
Humour in literature The use of humour in a work of literature does not diminish the seriousness of the work, nor does it suggest that it should not be called literature. According to Terry Eagleton (1985) and Michael Kelly (1994), comedy and irony are among the essential elements to be found in literature. Bakhtin goes one step further claiming that: ‘laughter is just as permissible in great
19 literature … as seriousness’ (Bakhtin 1984, p. 66). With such powerful supporters I felt encouraged to use humour in my creative piece.
I was less encouraged by Foucault’s suggestion that the role of literature is to lead ‘language back from grammar to the naked power of speech’ (1973, p. 300). According to Foucault, the writer is responsible for creating ‘the word upon the whiteness of a piece of paper, where it can possess neither sound nor interlocutor, where it has nothing to say but itself, nothing to do but shine in the brightness of its being’ (p. 300). This evocative approach to the art of creative writing is not easy to emulate, and, given the grimness of my subject matter, I consider that my words not only have to shine, they also have to tap dance, juggle three throbbing chainsaws while whistling Auld Lang Syne and turn cartwheels across the page, anything to attract and maintain the reader’s attention. As mentioned previously, I did not set out to write a funny book. My aim was to write a serious book about a serious subject to illustrate the ways humour can help in serious situations. The research to inform this process, therefore, included an examination of the ways in which humour is used in serious literary narratives.
I began my search for examples of the use of humour in literature with an early proponent, indeed the canonical proponent of the use of comic and ironic elements in fiction, physician and writer François Rabelais. The humour in Gargantua and Patagruel is large, bold and often challenging. In one passage, for example, Panurge buys a single sheep from a group of sheep merchants and throws it into the sea. The remaining sheep — as sheep are wont to do — follow their colleague into the water, immediately followed by the desperate merchants. As the merchants struggle to save their flock, and themselves, from drowning, Panurge encourages them to stop struggling and to consider instead the beauties of the after life (Rabelais 1993. pp. 247-248). The book contains other examples of extreme humour such as the account of Panurge dicing the genitalia of a bitch in heart— having first killed the dog — to sprinkle on a ‘Parisian Lady’ who had spurned his attention. The poor woman was then pursued by ‘above six hundred thousand and fourteen dogs’ which urinated upon her and around her, producing a ‘stream with their urine, wherein a duck might have very well swam (pp. 107-108). This type of humour succeeds in being funny because it is, simply, outrageous comedy, a precursor, perhaps, to the humour found in Monty Python’s Flying Circus (BBC TV 1969–1974) and Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975).
20 I went back in time to examine the works of William Shakespeare who not only wrote several comic plays, but who also wrote tragedies that contain several passages of comic relief. Hamlet, for example, uses humour to help him cope with his father’s sudden death, followed almost immediately by his mother's remarriage as illustrated in the following passage: ‘Thrift, thrift, Horatio. The funeral baked meats; Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables’ (Shakespeare c1599 and 1601, 1.2.180-81).
Hamlet also employs humour — in the form of wit, parody and irony — as foils to the comic characters of Polonius, Osric, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. The use of humour in the text serves as a means of dealing with a difficult situation as well as providing relief for the audience.
I then turned to the classic novelists of the nineteenth century. I didn’t find much to laugh at in my first choice, Thomas Hardy’s Jude the Obscure (1895/1999), a dark tale of poverty, passion and morality, in which Jude’s oldest son hangs his two younger siblings and then himself, leaving a suicide note that reads: ‘Done because we are too menny’ [sic] (p. 339). The deliberate misspelling of the word ‘many’ is an awful literary joke and a good example of shock horror humour. It is also a poignant reminder that the note was written by a child; one who had not experienced the joys of childhood that today are considered to be a child’s right. Dickens, however, lightened the mood in A Christmas Carol, demonstrating his skill in combining pathos with belly laughter, noting that: ‘while there is infection in disease and sorrow, there is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good humour’ (1843/1979, p. 102). The following passage illustrates Dickens’s use of humour as a diversion when Scrooge denies that the apparition, allegedly his late partner, Jacob Marley, is a ghost, claiming it’s the result of something he’d eaten: ‘an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato.’ He adds, ‘There’s more of gravy than of grave about you’ (p. 59).
Scrooge, not noted for his sense of humour, resorts to its use to disguise his fear:
Scrooge was not much in the habit of cracking jokes, nor did he feel, in his heart, by any means waggish then. The truth is, that he tried to be smart as a means of distracting his own attention, and keeping down his terror; for the spectre’s voice disturbed the very marrow in his bones (pp. 59-60).
21 Dickens also used humour to provide relief for the reader, for example, by offering two possible futures for Tiny Tim. In the first, sadder, version, the ‘Ghost of Christmas Present’ sees ‘a vacant seat’ and ‘a crutch without an owner’ (1979, p. 97). But even in this version Dickens managed to interject a lighter moment when, on returning home after choosing Tim’s burial plot, Bob Cratchit tells how he met Scrooge’s nephew, Fred, who passed on his condolences, adding that he was ‘heartily sorry for your good wife.’ Bob then exclaims, ‘how he ever knew that, I don’t know.’ To which Mrs Cratchit responds by asking: ‘Knew what, my dear?’ and Bob replies: ‘Why, that you were a good wife’ (p. 122).
In the happier version, having learnt the errors of his ways, Scrooge demonstrates his newly acquired cheeriness by laughing, what Dickens called: ‘a splendid laugh, an illustrious laugh. Father of a long, long line of brilliant laughs’ (1979, p. 128).
Dickens, and other writers, perhaps recognising the readers’ capacity to empathise with the characters and to share their pain, also used their stories to raise awareness of serious social issues. As Cawelti notes:
If he did not invent it, Charles Dickens developed the formula for social melodrama into one of the most successful fictional genres of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Dickens showed conclusively that a writer could represent society in a fairly complex way yet still achieve tremendous popular success if he synthesised social criticism with the archetype of melodrama and thereby gave the readers the pleasure of seeing the follies of men and institutions combined with the satisfaction of witnessing the triumph of virtue and the punishment of vice (1977, p. 268).
Writing a few years after Dickens, celebrated wit and writer Oscar Wilde tended to avoid grim subjects — except in his fairy tales. Wilde used humour, in particular irony, when writing about sensitive issues. For example, in The Importance of Being Earnest, written in 1895, on hearing that her daughter’s suitor was apparently abandoned while still an infant, Lady Bracknell responds: ‘To lose one parent, Mr Worthing, may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness’ (1991, p. 500). In Wilde’s era, babies born outside wedlock were often abandoned and this was the assumption made by Lady Bracknell — what she calls ‘a social indiscretion’ (p. 501).
Leaving the classics, I resumed my search among more contemporary examples of fiction and found several books in which the authors’ use of humour is their stock in trade.
22 Unfortunately, these works fit too neatly into the humour genre, and, although my novel includes comedic episodes, it is not a funny book. These books, therefore, were discounted for the purpose of this study.
The focus of my search was on contemporary adult fiction dealing with serious issues that also feature humorous episodes. I discovered that the list is limited. In each of the following examples the subject under discussion would be too painful to look at other than through the lens of humour. I drew on these passages for inspiration when writing my creative piece as they provide exemplary illustrations of the use of humour when writing about a topic that could otherwise be challenging for the reader. For example, Black Cabs is a contemporary novel about three London taxi drivers who take on the world of international finance to raise money to send Poppy, the 13-year-old daughter of one of the cabbies, to San Francisco for treatment for cystic fibrosis. Poppy has accepted that she’s dying but she goes along with the scheme to please her father. The following conversation between Poppy and a disillusioned investment banker illustrates the way in which humour is used within the text:
‘Oh, look at all your Barbie dolls. I love Barbie dolls.’ Poppy had to wait for her splutterings to subside before she could reply. ‘I liked ‘em when I was four or five. Now I think they’re sad. … If you want I’ll put the lot down for you in me clog book.’ ‘That’s nice of you. What’s a clog book?’ ‘It’s where I write who gets what when I pop me clogs’ McLaren 2002, p. 296).
Another example of the use of humour in a serious text is this passage from Last Orders in which one of the characters hears some bad news about a friend:
He’s still lying there, with the mask over his face and the extra tubes … and he don’t know sweet nothing. He don’t know he’s inoperable. And that geezer Strickland tells me it only took ten minutes, a quick opening up and sewing back together again, and he uses some word for it, a long fancy word, like something-sodomy (Swift 1996, p. 185).
This irreverent response to a painful situation is echoed in Anybody out there? This novel tells the story of Anna, a young widow, coping with the aftermath of a car accident that killed her husband and left her with serious injuries. The following extract, an email from Anna’s mother in Ireland, illustrates how humour can serve as a defence mechanism, a means of deferring the abject, to help people deal with a painful subject:
23 I don’t know if it will make you feel better or worse to know that things are very bad for us here too. There was more dog number two parked at our gate this morning. It is like living under siege. Luckily your father didn’t stand in it this time, but the milkman did and he was extremely annoyed and our ‘relationship’ with him is awkward enough since that time we all ‘cut out dairy’ because of that stupid diet Helen put us on that lasted five minutes until she realized that ice cream is dairy. It was hard enough to persuade him to come back that time (Keyes 2006, p. 301).
Who killed Marilyn Monroe? also features a character that uses humour to talk about a painful situation. The female protagonist is investigating the murder of Marilyn, a seaside donkey, and her inquiries lead her to a local hospice. There she is befriended by a group of terminally ill patients, one of whom carries a ‘seven-foot wooden staff, topped with a carved skull’ (Evans 1997, p. 122) for support. When asked where she got it from the patient replies:
‘Car boot sale. One previous owner: a very careful voodoo priest. [ … ] Probably mass-produced in Birmingham if the truth were known. But it suits me. Can’t make an individual statement with a Zimmer frame, can you? What do you think I used to do for a living?’ I hadn’t the faintest idea. But to humour her, I fell back on my first impression. ‘Headmistress?’ ‘Oh blast. [ … ] I shall have to redouble my efforts to embrace eccentricity before I die’ (pp. 122-123).
An earlier proponent of the use of humour in fiction is American psychiatrist Stephen Bergman, writing as Samuel Shem, who claimed he made his novel The House of God (1985) funny because: ‘the year had been so brutal that the only way anyone would want to read it was if it rode on humour — much as we interns had used humour to get us through the actual experience’ (Shem 2002, p. 935). Shem, summing up the rationale for his decision to use humour, quoted an anecdote attributed to George Bernard Shaw: ‘“If you tell the truth, make ‘em laugh, or they’ll kill you”’ (p. 935).
From adult fiction I turned to children’s and young adult literature. This proved a more rewarding source of works that combine humour and tragedy. Examples include: • Jenny Downham’s Before I Die (2007) is narrated by a 16-year-old girl who is dying of leukaemia. She compiles a list of things to do before she dies; number one is to lose her virginity. The comedic episodes lighten this ultimately tragically heroic tale.
24 • Morris Gleitzman’s Two weeks with the Queen (1990) is narrated by Colin, a 12-year-old boy whose parents pack him off to England so he won’t be traumatised by the impending death of his younger brother. Colin decides to ask the Queen to help save his brother. Colin’s optimism and naivety make this story touchingly funny. • Katherine Paterson’s Bridge to Terabithia (2007) is the story of a friendship between a young boy and a girl. The humour comes from seeing tragedy revealed through the eyes of an 11-year-old.
In contrast to the examples above, there is little humour in the children’s classic Seven Little Australians, by Ethel Turner (1894/1992). On the other hand, Alan Marshall’s I can jump puddles (1955/1995) is an excellent example of the way writers use humour to write about pain. Left crippled after a bout of polio when he was six years old, Marshall adapted easily to life on crutches and seemed determined not to let his condition slow him down. Although written with the wry wisdom of an adult, the story is narrated in Marshall’s voice as a child. The story contains several humorous passages, some of which have a naïve quality while others have a darker side, which are even more poignant because they are seen through the eyes of the child protagonist. For example, Marshall has numerous trips and tumbles as he learns to use crutches. He and his playmates find his ‘useless legs’ hugely amusing and Marshall explains that: ‘Children’s sense of humour is not restricted by adult ideas of good taste and tact’ (1995, p. 72).
As in I can jump puddles, most of the humour in Gilbert’s Ghost Train (Metzenthen 1998) comes from seeing the tragedy unfold through the eyes of the narrator, 14-year-old Martin, whose 13-year-old brother, Dally, is terminally ill.
The following passage illustrates the innocence of the narrator and two different uses of humour; the opening sentence illustrates the type of humour that comes from joy while the last two sentences come from an ironic masking of grief, a means of deferring abjection:
It was great to see Dally smile this afternoon. He used to smile a lot. Not now. I don’t, either. […] I think I’ve lost most of my sense of humour. I hope someone hands it in, ha ha ha’ (p. 126).
25 Humour, like fiction, can sometimes be the only way to tell a painful story. For example, although Jackie French claims her young adult novel Missing you, love Sara (2000) is not directly based on the real life disappearance of her older sister it does contain some ‘emotional truths’ (Kissane 2006). French’s use of humour helps to make the story less painful, as illustrated in this extract in which Sara is talking about the passage of time:
If this was on TV … I’d just have the hills turning into gold skulls like they do in summer, then the too-green colour they sometimes go in autumn, like a calf had had diarrhoea over them… (p. 156).
Not only do the works mentioned above tell an interesting and entertaining story, they also serve to demystify illness, death and trauma. The author’s use of humour — in French’s case scatological humour — provides respite for the reader as well as suggesting another way of dealing with pain and trauma. I used examples such as these during the writing process as models of the way humour can be used in a serious text.
Summary My search for works of fiction about death and dying, loss and grief, published in Australia within the last few years revealed a limited number of works for young adult readers. There appears to be even fewer works on this topic in the area of adult fiction, at least as far as Australian literature is concerned. One such book is Marion Halligan’s The Fog Garden (2001) in which she explores the nature of grief and loss following the death of her husband of 35 years. Another example is Helen Garner’s The Spare Room (2008). In this book Helen’s friend Nicola has come to stay for three weeks while undergoing an unorthodox form of cancer treatment. Practical Helen tries to cozen her fey friend into accepting that her condition is terminal.
Garner’s prose and dialogue are finely tuned and she interweaves lighter moments to reduce reader burn out. For example, in this extract Helen has taken Nicola to see a young German magician:
He avoided my eye, but looked straight at Nicola. ‘The most beautiful things,’ he remarked to her in a German-tinged drawl, ‘happen secretly and privately.’ A broad, eager grin spread across her face. She was his. He had chosen her; he would use her (pp. 146-147).
26 In contrast to the examples above, there is little humour in Peter Goldsworthy’s short story ‘Jesus Wants Me For A Sunbeam’ which makes grim reading. In this story, the father of young Emma, who has leukaemia, kills himself so that she will have someone ‘there’ when she dies (1993, pp. 129-136). The reader shares the family’s tragedy: the young girl’s fear of being alone after she dies, the father’s difficult decision, and knowing that mother and son will be left behind. In short, it’s a tear-jerker. There are lighter moments, though, when Emma (nicknamed ‘Wol’) asks her grandmother if she wants to be buried or cremated:
Forewarned, fully briefed, the grandmother — a youthful fifty-five — laughed lightly: ‘It’s so far away I haven’t thought about it, Wol.’ The small girl watched her solemnly for some time. ‘If you’re cremated,’ she finally said, ’you might not have a body to wear in heaven.’ The adults smiled at each other above her head, allowing themselves to be amused, willing themselves to be amused… (pp. 107-108).
There is clearly room in the field of adult fiction for a work of fiction that looks at a contemporary approach to death and dying and the ways in which humour can help people to cope when faced with an awful situation. My creative piece explores a serious subject and uses recent research to illustrate the efficacy of humour as a means of defusing stress and as an effective tool in the communication process. The use of humour not only lightens what could be a bleak story but also serves to raise the question as to whether humour can mitigate the effects of physical and psychological pain.
27 CHAPTER 2 HUMOUR AND LAUGHTER
What is humour? Despite being the subject of interest for many years as yet there is no universally agreed definition of humour. Nor is there an activity that is considered universally funny, although most people will laugh at the slapstick antics of the circus clowns — unless they suffer from coulrophobia, which is an extreme fear of clowns. This is possibly because clowns rely on generic visual cues rather than culturally specific cues such as jokes, which require an understanding of the joke-matter. For example, people may not understand a joke about something that happened before they were born, or one about another culture or unfamiliar subject matter. Patch Adams, acknowledged as the world’s first ‘clown doctor’, suggests that ‘Farts are the only thing I’ve found to be universally funny in all countries’ (Adams 2002, p. 448). Although this may be true in some cultures — the Japanese, for example, consider fart humour hilariously funny (Wells 2008) — other cultures may find this type of humour offensive.
Humour scholar Carmen Moran and social researcher Margaret Massam have taken on the challenge of providing a definition for humour and suggest the difficulty in doing so is partly because it has different characteristics, such as: ‘sense of humour, appreciation of humour or generation of humour’ (1997, p. 27), whereas nurse and humour therapy researcher, Elaine Anne Pasquali, suggests that ‘the most useful way to define humour is to say humour is whatever people find funny’ (1990, p. 31). Writing in The Medical Journal of Australia, Jorm and colleagues claim that: ‘Humour allows us to see as amusing or ridiculous aspects of both everyday life and the unusual events that confront us.’ (Jorm et al 2004, S36), while the Macquarie Dictionary defines humour simply as ‘the quality of being funny’ (Delbridge 1998, p. 1045). The latter definition was subsequently refined by Moran who describes humour as having ‘some link with “the funny”’ (2007, p. 31). This definition lends itself neatly to the use I make of this phenomenon in my research.
Humour and laughter Although often used to describe the same phenomenon, the terms laughter and humour are not interchangeable. While acknowledging that ‘there is nothing harder to explain than humor’, Kundera however, provides a definition of what it is not: ‘humor is not laughter, not mockery, not satire, but a particular species of the comic’ (1996b, pp. 34-35). While commending
28 Kundera for recognising the distinction between humour and laughter, acknowledging laughter as a separate phenomenon, I disagree with his definition. In my view, mockery and satire — like ridicule, derision, sarcasm, parody, and irony — belong to that class of humour that, while generally generated by hostility rather than feelings of goodwill, nevertheless generates laughter and therefore fits under the defining umbrella of ‘the funny’ (Moran 2007. pp. 31). Indeed, the satirical role of humour was tested recently by Australian legislators updating copyright protection for comedians. As part of this process, satire and parody — considered the two most relevant types of humour — were given legal definitions. In discussing the proposed amendment to the Copyright Act 1968, the Attorney General used the Macquarie Dictionary’s definitions of parody and satire, concluding that ‘parody emphasises its quality of humorous imitation; and in relation to satire, its purpose of ridiculing a subject with humour or irony.’ Sally McCausland, a lawyer with the Special Broadcasting Service, explained that the amendment — a world first for protection under copyright law — means that writers, artists, comedians and the like can now use ‘fair’ extracts of material ‘for the purposes of parody and satire’ (Art&law 2007, p. 1). In a practical sense, humour is considered to be the ability to perceive an activity or situation as amusing, whereas laughter in general is the response to ‘the funny’ (Åstedt-Kurki & Isola (2001); Moran (2007); Sheldon (1996).
What is laughter? Laughter is a fascinating phenomenon. For more than 2,000 years, ‘some of history’s great philosophers, writers, scientists and physicians’ have explored the nature and purpose of laughter but have provided ‘only the vaguest of answers’ (Provine 2000, p. 2) of why we laugh, although he adds that laughter is ‘instinctive’ (p. 1).
According to Professor John Morreal (1982), humour scholar and current president of the International Society for Humor Studies, people laugh for various reasons and in a range of situations, for example, ‘when we are tickled, when a magician makes an object appear or disappear … when we run into an old friend’. We also laugh when we are embarrassed, or in response to escaping a threat or danger (Morreal 1982, p. 243). Drawing on the theories of Plato, Aristotle, Hobbes, Freud and Herbert Spencer, Morreal and Simon Critchley have classified the reasons why we laugh into three typographies: superiority — when people laugh because they feel superior to the object of their laughter; incongruity — when people laugh at the unexpected or bizarre; and relief — which allows people to release pent-up nervous
29 energy (Critchley 2002, p. 25; Morreal 1983, pp. 243-247). The relief theory suggests that at the first sign of danger we take a deep breath in preparation to fight or flee. When the danger has passed we may choose to expel that breath in a laugh. This response may also conceal our embarrassment because we allowed ourself to feel afraid. This fear/laugh phenomenon can be seen — and heard — at amusements parks where people scream and laugh as they ride on the roller coaster and the big wheel. Laughing at having survived a perceived threat may also be part of the attraction of the horror movie experience. Why else do audiences laugh when someone gets shot, decapitated or mutilated on screen?
As discussed previously, it appears that the act of laughing — what Spencer described as ‘a form of muscular excitement’ (1860, p. 5) — may not always be related to humour. Humour can exist without laughter in the same way that laughter can take place when there is nothing to laugh at. This phenomenon is discussed in a later section of this thesis, where I analyse Laughter Clubs, where participants are encouraged to laugh for no reason.
Laughter and sadness Umberto Eco recognises the extremes of laughter and sadness, claiming there are rules, a ‘social frame’, that defines the differences between the two (1984, pp. 1-2). He posits that the difference between the two theatrical extremes of comedy and tragedy is based on the personality of the character violating what Eco calls ‘a Code, a social frame, a law, a set of social premises’ (pp. 1-2). The deviation also depends on the seriousness of the rule being broken. Tragedy is when the rule broken is a serious one, such as an act of violence, and it has been committed by a likeable character. Comedy is when the rule broken is a minor one — such as a breach of social etiquette — and the audience is unsympathetic to the perpetrator (p. 1), for example, when a member of the glitterati or a politician trips, or commits a social gaffe. It seems that people enjoy laughing at the misfortunes of others — the superiority theory — although, Eco claims, we are less likely to laugh at someone who inspires our sympathy (p. 1). This theory was tested by the cast of The Chaser’s War on Everything when The Eulogy Song, which satirises dead celebrities, is alleged to have offended several viewers. The song, performed by Chaser’s cast member, Andrew Hansen and which generated laughter among the studio audience, described Princess Diana as a ‘slut for sex’, Don Bradman as a ‘grumpy, greedy tight-arse’, and Kerry Packer as a ‘brothel chief, a tax cheat and a kidney thief’ (2007). The song’s chorus line was: ‘Even wankers turn into top blokes after death.’ Hansen had just started a verse about popular identity Belinda Emmett, who had
30 died of cancer in the previous year, when the rest of the crew signalled him to stop (Solly 2007).
In The Eulogy Song satire and slander challenge the divergence between good and bad taste. From an ontological perspective, the question of taste can be framed within the rhetoric of accepted custom in a particular society. In contemporary Australian society, The Chasers’ breach of the long-standing practice of not speaking ill of the dead still has the power to shock. But even though it might be in questionable taste, the big question is: is it funny? The song’s humour is contextual and depends on the listener’s experiences with bereavement and their views on satirising serious issues such as death and dying. According to Eco’s theory about humour, the humour in The Eulogy Song is derived from a ‘violation of a rule’, in this case a minor ‘etiquette rule’. This violation allows those viewers who were amused by the song to experience a mixed and vicarious pleasure at no risk to themselves because they did not commit the ‘violation’ (Eco 1984a, p. 2).
In order to laugh at someone less fortunate than ourselves we must first ‘put our affections out of court and impose silence upon our pity’ (Bergson 1956, p. 63). The need to suspend pity presents an interesting challenge for members of the medical and other helping professions, some of whom have the capacity to engage in humour even in tragic situations. The ability to find ‘the funny’ in appalling circumstances, however, need not have anything to do with humour. As noted previously, not all laughter is humour related. As I discovered in my research, several participants were unable to provide examples of episodes that had made them laugh. The humour in these events is situational and contextual and in part dependent on the seriousness of the situation and the need to reduce the stress. That is, during a medical procedure or an emergency situation a trivial event could generate laughter that is disproportionate to the funniness of the incident or comment. The ability to laugh in such situations demonstrates the extent to which humour can serve as an effective coping mechanism, a means of confronting the abject. It also demonstrates ‘one’s cognitive well-being’ (Zunshine 2006, p. 18), or, as Eco so eloquently explains, ‘we can pass over in laughter the difficulty of living’ (1984, p. 2).
Kristeva’s (1982) notion of abjection as sitting somewhere beyond the accepted order reminded me of a situation that took place several years ago when I attended an auction of a house and contents of what was advertised as a ‘pre-deceased estate’. I examined boxes of
31 bed-linen, crockery and old cookery books looking for a bargain. I picked up a box of photo albums and flicked carefully through the fragile pages, skimming over the faded images of a stranger’s treasured memories. I had come face to face with the abject; I didn’t like what I saw. I looked at the gathering crowd, people like me who had come to pick over the carcass, the remains of someone’s life. And the owner wasn’t yet dead. I felt overwhelmed by the shadowy figure of the owner of the property who had forced me to face my mortality. ‘Is this what it’s all about?’ I asked myself as I walked away empty handed, unwilling to add more ‘stuff’ to be picked over by strangers when I’ve gone. I came away from that property feeling that it was completely inhabited by the abject. There was no space for the commonplace, not even for humour.
As previously mentioned, not all humour is good humour, intended to amuse, entertain, or deflect from a stressful situation. Bergson, noting the paradoxical nature of laughter, its cruelty and disciplinary function, claims that it is not ‘invariably inspired by sentiments of kindness … its function is to intimidate by humiliating’ (1956, p. 188). According to Bergson, ‘even the best of men’ have ‘a spark of spitefulness or, at all events, mischief’ that should not be examined too closely because we should not find anything ‘very flattering to ourselves’ (p. 189). In Bergson’s opinion, humour is ‘a corrective’ intended to humiliate, a means of revenge that ‘would fail in its object if it bore the stamp of sympathy or kindness’ (p. 187). Both Billig and Provine agree that ridicule, in particular, can be harmful. Provine refers to the way group members use laughter to ridicule and exclude outsiders, while Billig adds that: ‘In the rush to sentimentalise the supposed goodness of humour, such theories overlook, and even repress, the negative’ (2005, p. 5).
Despite his comments on humour’s dark side, Billig stresses that he is ‘not trying to devalue the nature of humor [sic] but correct one-sided views which are over-optimistic’ (2005, pers. comm., 5 April). Nor does he distinguish between laughter that derives from positive or negative humour, claiming that laughter can be beneficial even if the cause of the laughter is not. Billig responds to the claim that: ‘There is unhealthy laughter, presumably associated with socionegative humour’ (Berger et al 2004, p. 825) by arguing that laughter cannot be unhealthy because it is a natural physiological response (2005, p. 23). I would argue, however, that laughter can be unhealthy, especially when used to ridicule those who are ‘different’ or outside the group, and, as Provine points out, laughter often accompanies acts of violence such as raping, looting and killing: ‘the traditional fruits of war’ (Provine
32 2000, p. 47). This type of laughter, although possibly adding to the enjoyment of the perpetrators, has no beneficial effect on the victims. This study, however, is confined to a discussion on the effects of humour on the people using it. It does not examine the effects of humour on anyone who might be a subject of ridicule or those witnessing the humour event.
Humour and abjection Abjection reminds us of our mortality, our inherent fear of death and the instinct to survive. Kristeva suggests that there is a horrible fascination for the repellent side of the human body — a bloated corpse, a bleeding wound, or a severed limb (Kristeva 1982). We may feel sickened but we are compelled to look. This may explain why drivers slow down when passing an accident scene. It is also demonstrated by the popularity of hospital dramas, crime shows featuring life-like autopsies, and reality television programs that feature the severely diseased and disabled. This fascination for the abject was examined by Trotter as a means of explaining the attraction of detective fiction (1991, p. 60). Referring to the attraction of the repellent Trotter suggests that ‘the abject draws us towards death’; the attraction of detective fiction lies in enabling the readers to vicariously experience death and the abject (Trotter 1991, p. 60). The abject is neatly displaced, the death of the victim being forensically controlled by the detective or pathologist. The object is to determine the cause of death, thereby resolving the situation and deposing the abject. Crime fiction also allows the reader to be aware of society’s changing values, in particular those relating to crime and criminals. As Cawelti points out, crime fiction ‘ambiguously mirrors a world in which the individualistic ethos no longer satisfactorily explains and orders society for most members of the public’ (1977, p. 77).
This need to understand, to stay in control, serves to explain the role of humour as means of deferring abjection. Finding humour in the baser bodily functions is more than a means of acknowledging the attraction of the abject, it can also raise awareness about subjects that might otherwise be considered taboo or too sensitive to talk about. Humour can take the edge off feelings of disgust and fear, making the repellent less so. That being said, the abject is a constant presence, difficult to ignore, and can lead to feelings of disgust when observing someone pick dead skin off their feet, scratch at a scab, or peel off strips of sunburnt skin. In my view there is something inheritably abhorrent, almost cannibalistic, about the way some people inspect and then eat what was once part of their bodies, such as dried nasal mucus or the skin around their fingernails, or lick a bleeding cut.
33 Esslin also examined the ways in which humour can be found in the less pleasant aspects of human nature, acknowledging that its use in comic theatre “‘transcends the categories of comedy and tragedy and combines laughter with horror’” (1968, p. 401). In a similar vein, Bakhtin recognised the ‘grotesque realism’ of finding humour in bodily functions, cruelty, and the unfortunate (Morris 1994, p. 195). The desire to laugh at the grotesque and the unfortunate was also behind the humorous writings of Rabelais, who, it is claimed, drew ‘healthy humour from sick humour’ in his literary work in which his ‘comic victims’ were ‘targets for humiliation, mutilation and even death’ (Williams 2006, pp. 671-672). Black — even ‘sick’ — humour, thus, can provide a means of coping with abjection and regaining control.
As well as reminding us of the link between the body as live object and the body as other, that is, as a corpse, abjection also occurs in less dramatic ways. We are, for example, fascinated by bodily excreta; the repellent substances that are regularly excreted, fall off, or otherwise separate from the body. This fascination might explain the compulsion of some people to examine the contents of their fingernails after using them to clean their ears or to scrape their nasal cavities. Disgusting, perhaps, but nevertheless fascinating. Bakhtin’s notion of the carnivalesque — that is, the celebration of ‘the lower strata bodily functions’ and its products ‘such as defecation, urine, mucus, and semen’ (Mansour 2007, p. 146) — mirrors Kristeva’s theory of the abject as attraction. Academic and humour scholar, Milner Davis, claims that comedy — a type of humour — is drawn from ‘our continued efforts to master our own bodies and our physical environment’ (1978, p. 22). This fits in with Julia Kristeva’s notion of humour as a means of restoring the symbolic order, of providing a way of taking control of a situation that would otherwise place the individual concerned in what Kristeva describes as ‘the borderlands’, the last frontier between the world one usually inhabits and a place that is outside the norm (1982, p. 55).
Feeling out of control can be debilitating. For example, one of my participants, a bereaved parent, said that when her baby died she felt alienated from reality. She was unable to undertake everyday tasks or to interact with her partner or her two other children. Life went on around her but she was merely an observer, a stranger in a foreign land. The breakthrough, she said, came when she and her husband were watching the television comedy program Spicks and Specks and she laughed for the first time for several months. She said she felt better and determined to find more opportunities to laugh in the future.
34 People working in traumatic situations have to remain in control in order to do their jobs. Humour can provide a means of reclaiming control. Several of my interviewees admitted to using inappropriate or black humour in dangerous and/or traumatic circumstances (that is, when faced with the abject) that would be considered offensive in a different situation or context. The use of humour in such situations can help those involved to cope with trauma, stress and to face abjection. For example, one of the participants in my study, a paramedic, said that when going to a house fire or a car crash, the crew might say they were on their way to a ‘fry up’, describing the victims as ‘crispy critters’. The participant explained that this type of humour helps to dehumanise the situation, allowing him and his colleagues to do what they have to do. The paramedic and his colleagues are continually presented with abjection; humour allows them to cope with the bleeding, mutilated and badly burnt bodies of the victims they are employed to care for.
Another participant, a former nurse with 33 years experience, most recently in intensive care, said that hospital staff called patients with multiple traumas ‘crunchy bars’ because their broken bones meant they were all crunched up. They also called people who frequently presented at the hospital’s accident and emergency unit as ‘frequent flyers’. She said that in the 1990s she was on duty at a hospital in a small country town when a mother and her five children were brought in, all badly burned following a house fire. The children were either dead on arrival or died shortly afterwards but the mother survived for two weeks. The hospital staff members were traumatised, as were other members of the small community. The then director of nursing at the hospital decided that there was no need for medical staff to be formally debriefed, even though the paramedics, the police and fire officers were offered counselling. Nurses are expected to be immune to trauma. The participant said that staff would talk to each other and try to find ‘the funny’, adding that ‘if you don’t laugh, you don’t survive’ (2009, pers. comm., 21 January).
Moran and Massam’s investigation into the role of humour in emergency work suggest that ‘for the use of humour to be truly therapeutic’ it is important to separate the ‘healthy use of humour’ from that which serves temporarily to conceal emotions (1997, p. 37), in other words, deferring the abject. This view is consistent with Bergson’s view that laughter is accompanied by an ‘absence of feeling’ (1956, p. 63). In my view an ‘absence of feeling’ would be the desired state of someone involved in a traumatic situation as it suggests that while laughing, the individual is released, albeit temporarily, from the borderlands. On the
35 other hand, Kristeva suggests that the act of laughing at the abject is a kind of horrified ‘apocalyptic laughter’, a conscious compulsion to confront that which repels. This laughter, this ‘gushing forth of the unconscious’, is ‘neither jovial, nor trustful, nor sublime, nor enraptured by preexisting [sic] harmony. It is bare, anguished, and as fascinated as it is frightened’ (Kristeva 1982, pp. 205-06).
Humour, then, can be a means of confronting fear, or deferring the abject, of managing a situation that would otherwise be beyond control. During the course of my research I found several participants had used humour when hospitalised to preserve their dignity when, possibly for the first time in their adult lives, they needed assistance with intimate activities such as toileting and bathing. Humour helped them to ‘shift their feelings of shame’ (Åstedt-Kurki & Isola, 2001, p. 457) in needing strangers to clean up their vomit, dress their wounds, or wipe their soiled backsides. It was their way of dealing with the abject (Kristeva 1982, pp. 204-206).
In my creative piece Maggie is the narrative site of abjection that is centred around her terminally ill son. She and other fictional characters incorporate the laughter of the apocalypse. No matter how much we may want to ignore it, the reality is that death is inevitable. We might not like to talk about it much less make fun of it, nevertheless, I feel that to laugh in the face of death may be a chance for one last hurrah, a final flash of heroic humour before the curtain falls. I observed an example of this at the Reveries: photography and mortality exhibition at Old Parliament House. There was a collection of photos of artist David McDiarmid taken a few months before his death from HIV/AIDS. Several photos show McDiarmid with a companion, a plastic skull, a device used to illustrate his intimacy with death. In one photo, McDiarmid holds the skull close to his face, eye to eye, in the manner of Hamlet examining Yorick’s skull (Moore 2007). McDiarmid cheekily pokes his tongue out, almost touching the skull’s mouth, an attempt, perhaps, to poke fun at death itself; and we laugh to hide our fear.
Types of humour In order to write about the role of humour I first had to explore the different types of humour and the role they play as a coping mechanisms and as a means of communication.
36 Humour comes in many shapes and sizes, including black or gallows humour, puns, wordplay, riddles, farce, sarcasm, satire, burlesque, caricature, parody and irony. It can be scatological and crude. It can also be offensive, mocking, inflammatory, divisive and cruel. It can break down barriers, cover a social gaffe, and reduce the potential for embarrassment and may even deflect violence. Humour can also be cathartic. For example, doctor and writer Samuel Shem claimed he wrote The House of God (1985), a mainly autobiographical account of his first year as an intern, ‘for catharsis, to share with my buddies what had been the worst year of my life’ (Shem 2002, p. 935).
Black humour The use of black humour by those in the helping professions is not a recent phenomenon. Despite being a physician, Rabelais’s humour bordered on the darker side. Another physician, Samuel Shem, alerted the general public to the use of medical slang, a particular type of black/in-house humour, in The House of God (1985). The book spawned several neologisms many of which found their way into contemporary hospital jargon such as GOMER (get out of my emergency room) and Code Brown (faecal incontinence). More recently, medical slang was explored by British medical practitioner Adam Fox who compiled a dictionary of more than two hundred examples of these terms. Although acknowledging that some medical slang is cruel and offensive and could confuse not only the patient but also any doctors not familiar with the terms, Fox claimed that, ‘The use of medical slang helps to depersonalise the distress encountered in doctors’ everyday working lives’ (2002, p. s179). Fox added that the use of such humour ‘is a way of coping with some of the unpleasantness of dealing with human bodily functions, suffering and death on a daily basis’. He described it is as ‘a way of detaching and distancing oneself from patients' distress through loss, grief, disease, dying and death. Often someone else's pain is too much for us, so we cut off’ (p. s179).
Despite the awfulness of some of the examples of black humour— including medical slang and in-house pranks — it does allow people working in challenging situations to perform their job. Although recognising the value of humour in this regard, Åstedt-Kurki and Isola (2001), Fox (2003), Moran and Massam (1997), and Spitzer (2008), nevertheless caution about the need to use it appropriately and sensitively. Outside a particular work situation this type of humour may be considered offensive and degrading.
37 For reasons of caution, I discounted Rabelaisian humour which I consider to be at the extreme end of black humour although Eastman (1937), Mannel (1977), and Williams (2006) defend Rabelais’s peculiar sense of humour claiming that the ability to find acts of violence amusing is contextual and dependent on the ‘ludic sphere’ in which such acts take place (Mannel 1977, p. 273). This requires ‘a peculiar shift of values’ to enable ‘disagreeable things’ to be perceived differently, ‘to acquire a pleasant emotional flavour and provoke a laugh’ (Eastman 1937, p. 19). A contemporary example of this is where the modern reader laughs when a cartoon character is injured (Williams 2006, p. 673). Williams suggests that such a response is beneficial as it encourages ‘readers to look on the inevitabilities of human life with a sense of humour which may be ironic, self-deprecating, sick even, but which is also ultimately healthy’ (p. 681).
Notwithstanding this endorsement of Rabelaisian humour, I was unable to adopt his extreme example as a model for my writing. This was not only because I was afraid that my participants might be offended but also because my use of humour does not include making fun of the more grotesque or disgusting aspects of illness. Given this, I chose to focus my research on two types of humour: heroic and self-deprecating/self-defeating humour, and the ways they can serve as a coping mechanism and a means of communication.
Self-deprecating humour Also known as self-defeating humour, self-deprecating humour can be a means of normalising our individuality, a means of coping with real and perceived responses to our difficulties. It can provide an opportunity for those on the edge of the ‘symbolic order’ (Kristeva 1982, p. 55) to take control of the situation. They can use humour to get in first by making up-front comments about a real or perceived difference, whether this is a question of race, sexual preference, body shape, age, physical ability, or even having a different accent.
This efficacy of this type of humour is illustrated in Alan Marshall’s autobiographical novel I can jump puddles (1955/1995). Marshall tells how his young friends would laugh when he stumbled and shout with merriment when he fell over. What makes Marshall’s story palatable is that he is not just being laughed at, he is also laughing with his friends. Humour was probably Marshall’s intuitive response to his situation, one that enabled him to take control, reasoning that it is better to be the instigator of the joke rather than the victim. Marshall claims he was ‘gripped by some sense of absurdity that made a stumble on crutches an
38 hilarious thing’ (1995, p. 72). This is what Williams would describe as a healthy use of self-deprecating humour (2006, p. 681). The use of humour in such situations is an encouraging sign, implying a ‘more positive view of the experience’ (Bury 2001, p. 278). It can also be a means of distancing the self from a painful reality.
Although Marshall’s experience as a child coming to terms with his disability happened a hundred years ago, children continue to be teased and bullied in the playground for being different, and Marshall’s laugh-at-yourself-first approach is still practised. Although no one likes being laughed at — what Bergson calls ‘social ragging’ (1956, p. 148) —it may be a valuable experience. Being teased in the playground, like a latter day Alan Marshall, apparently teaches children how ‘not to take themselves too seriously’ and to develop the skills needed to negotiate ‘playful criticism’ through the use of ‘witty comments.’ The ability to cope with ‘playful humiliations’ — such as teasing and name-calling — helps victims to bond with the fellow students, forming lasting friendships, with many growing up to take on leadership roles (Saurine 2008, p. 3).
Janet Holmes likewise recognises that humour can serve as ‘a shield, and a cloak, as well as an incisive weapon in the armoury of the oppressed’ (2000, p. 180). This concept was supported by one of my participants, a child psychiatrist, who claims humour can help young people who are being picked on at school. Put simply, he advocates Marshall’s approach, claiming that ‘poking fun at yourself first makes it harder for other people to make fun of you’ (2005, pers. comm., 13 May). In any event, a study in 1993 of 96 college students revealed that ‘generating humour was found to be therapeutically beneficial’ and was better than just being an observer (Moran 1997). This finding is supported by my participant’s comment that ‘initiating humour can move an individual from the role of victim to being in control of the situation’ (2005, pers. comm., 13 May).
Comedian Mark Trevorrow confirms the efficacy of self-deprecating humour as a defence mechanism claiming he created a ‘“Bob Downe-like” character as a five-year-old, finding the “universal clown” within as a way to protect himself.’ He added that being young and gay meant he had to develop a range of skills because ‘every day is dangerous, they’re waiting for you. […] By being funny you didn’t get beaten up’ (Hardy 2008, p. 3). Other examples of self-deprecating humour can be seen among professional comedians. On stage, the Irish or Jewish or Muslim comedian, or one with a disability, get in first by talking openly about
39 being different. By accepting themselves as a subject of ridicule they give their audience permission to laugh at them not just with them.
The extent to which self-deprecating/self-defeating humour is helpful was tested recently using the Humor Styles Questionnaire (HSQ) on 41 residents in three aged care facilities. The study found that of the four humour styles identified in the HSQ:
self-defeating humour was the only humour style that correlated significantly with stress: the more self-defeating humour the resident used, the less stress he or she reported. Self-defeating humour also correlated highly with the measure of coping though humour. These results strongly suggest that for populations who are not in a position to do anything practical about a difficult situation, presenting themselves in a humorous way is tantamount to feeling better about life (Salicki & McLachlan 2008).
Heroic humour Heroic humour can be a means of providing reassurance, a way of saying: ‘Don’t worry about me, I’m fine’ even though this may not the case. This type of humour is often used as a coping mechanism by people with disabilities (such as Alan Marshall) or those who are seriously ill. For example, media reports following the death in June 2008 of Jane McGrath, late wife of cricket legend Glenn McGrath, refer to her good humour (Brown et al 2008, p. 1). Another example comes from a participant in my study who had surgery to remove half a lung following a diagnosis of lung cancer. Shortly after the operation the surgeon asked him to cough. The participant said he tried to cough but it was too painful. The doctor pointed to a patient in a nearby bed who was coughing loudly and said: ‘Look at him, he can do it.’ A few weeks later the participant visited the surgeon. During the examination the participant said: ‘I can cough now, do you want to hear me?’ This use of heroic humour illustrates the participant’s acceptance of the post-operative pain and his embarrassment at being unable to comply with the surgeon’s request.
Heroic humour can also be used as a survival technique. In an interview on Radio National, Milner Davis responded to a statement that Billy Connolly had brought ‘together two of the greatest subjects for humour — religion and … death’ by claiming that humour is ‘a way of conquering the unconquerable.’ Milner Davis added that stories told by survivors of the Nazi concentration camps have revealed ‘how humour helped them survive’, positing the theory that their ability to smile in such appalling circumstances ‘is a true sign of triumph over the near death experiences’ (2002). What Milner Davis is suggesting is not that humour per se
40 was responsible for the survival of those inmates rather that in some way it served as a coping mechanism in this terrifying situation.
Another example of heroic humour was given by a participant who told me about an elderly relative hospitalised with heart disease and diabetes. When told shortly before Christmas that he would have to have both legs amputated, the patient contacted his family and friends to tell them the news, adding: ‘I’ll be legless on New Year’s Eve.’ As well as reassuring family and friends, this example illustrates the way humour can serve as a means of talking about a painful subject. A further example is Noeline Brown’s story of how, a few hours before he died, comedian Graham Kennedy’s doctor ‘inquired if he would like to ask him anything. “Yes,” Kennedy replied, “why do you doctors charge so much?”’ (The Canberra Times, 1 June 2005, p. 3).
Humour as a social function One of the more easily identifiable benefits of humour is its role as a social function, as a means of bringing people together and maintaining social control. According to Chris Powell (1988), humour can play a crucial role in determining and maintaining social control:
Life consists essentially of constantly negotiating our understandings with other people, establishing and maintaining by social controls our own virtue and those of our kind (although in their case not quite as much!) and the immorality and irrationality of others (p. 99).
Powell’s view, like that of Zunshine (2006, p. 18), is that humour serves as an intelligence test and demonstrates social competence by measuring, ‘one’s grip … of the way things are’ (Powell 1988, p. 99).
The ability to transfer the focus from abjection to the lighter side of life, to make it possible to maintain control when the world has been turned upside down is, to me, humour’s greatest strength. Humour can be the only way some people can cope with difficult situations. Billy Connolly, for example, was abandoned by his mother, verbally and physically abused by the aunts who brought him up, and sexually abused by his father (Stephenson, p. 2001). Gifted comedic actor Nigel Hawthorne was homosexual before it became acceptable, and legal, to be gay (2002). Like Spike Milligan, British comedian Stephen Fry also has bipolar disorder, formerly known as manic depression. Fry admitted that he once tried to kill himself when depressed (Owen 2006, p. B2). Perhaps their lives would have been different without humour.
41 Humour can help people to reveal their darkest thoughts and pretend it is only a joke. Australian comedian Adam Hills — who has an artificial foot — practices this type of humour, claiming that ‘part of what comedy does is make life a little less scary’. Hill demonstrated this in a stage performance when he told how, a few days after September 11, his foot set off metal detectors at Heathrow Airport. When security guards discovered the cause of the alarm, Hills said, they ‘were more freaked-out about my foot than about the idea of me being a terrorist … that attitude of, “I don't care if the plane goes down as long as I don't offend a spastic''' (Litson 2004, p. B03).
Timing No subject is too sensitive for humour; all it takes is sufficient time between the event and the first humorous reference for it to be acceptable. The importance of the time factor was demonstrated in an episode of The Chaser’s War on Everything when one of the presenters simulated sniffing a substance and suggested it was something Bindi (the daughter of the late Steve Irwin) could do with her father’s ashes. There was an audible gasp from the audience, causing the presenter to ask: ‘Too soon?’ (ABC 2007). The audience’s response was not just because of alleged substance abuse by a nine-year-old, or that the audience was sympathetic to Bindi, to the object of the humour (Eco 1984, p. 1), it was also because the timing was wrong. The time factor is an important measure of the seriousness of the situation. For example, it is alleged to have taken ‘5 days, 2 hours, 8 minutes and 1 second’ between the first plane hitting the World Trade Centre on 11 September 2001 and the appearance of the first joke on the Internet (Klein 2001). As Professor Robert Phiddian said: ‘There are always some things we shouldn’t make fun of – for a time’ (2007 n.p.).
According to Steven Sultanoff, clinical psychologist and humour practitioner, ‘Humor helps place crisis in perspective and helps to make the crisis more manageable’ (1995, p. 3). Like Eastman, Sultanoff supports the need to frame humour within the ‘ludic sphere’:
One factor that influences an individual's receptivity to humor about a crisis situation is distance. As a rule of thumb, the greater the distance between the individual and the crisis the more likely humor will be therapeutic and not experienced as insensitive (1995, p. 3).
42 Wooten and Dunkelblau consider that the use of humour after a traumatic event ‘is a step toward health and healing’ and marks the beginning of recovery, adding:
Humor allows us to detach from the trauma for a few moments and gives respite from the emotional chaos. Laughter provides an emotional catharsis. Feelings of anger, tension, and fear can be neutralized and released with laughter. After the laughter we feel strong, resilient, and hopeful. Laughter invites celebration and reminds us of the joy in life (2001, p. 1).
As mentioned previously, the motivation for my research was to test the widely held belief that humour and laughter are universally good. Some authorities, such as Billig and Bergson, suggest otherwise although Bergson does suggest that laughter can be a means of reducing tension given ‘the absence of feeling which usually accompanies laughter’ (1956, p. 63). Although referring specifically to laughter generated by jokes, Freud (1905/1975, pp. 147-148) also considers that laughter can be a release from tension, a ‘free discharge’ and ‘an indication of pleasure.’ I would argue that laughing in response to a joke does not necessarily indicate pleasure. Such laughter might more accurately reflect the status of the teller since people are more likely to laugh if the initiator is male and/or of a higher professional or social status. This explains why we are more likely to laugh at a joke told by our boss than by a colleague, especially if the boss is male and the listeners are female (Provine 2000, pp. 29 31). Provine adds that laughter can be means of controlling human behaviour; for example, laughing in an embarrassing or threatening situation, may help to save face or deflect the aggression (pp. 29-31). This phenomenon features in my creative piece with some of the characters laughing at inappropriate activities or to cover their embarrassment or because they feel emotionally threatened.
Billig unequivocally argues against the notion that laughter is universally beneficial. He points out that while it is a social activity because ‘We laugh with others’, it can also be antisocial because ‘we can laugh at others’ (2002, p. 452). Schadenfreude, the act of laughing at the misfortune of others, is not an uncommon human practice. Comedian James Vorhaus recounts an embarrassing incident when he was 12 years old and the girl he adored told the class she was moving away. Vorhaus leapt out of his chair and bleated: ‘Leslie, where are you moving, and why?’ His classmates burst out laughing. It was then, Vorhaus said, that he ‘discovered a fundamental rule of humour … COMEDY IS TRUTH AND PAIN [sic]’ (1994, pp. 1-2). This painful incident — being exposed to the ridicule and derision of one’s peers — is another example of the impact of humour’s dark side. One of the responses to this type of
43 humour, if it persists, is to fight back like Alan Marshall (1955/1995), initiating humour to gain control of the situation.
Summary While the evidence about the benefits of humour is inconclusive, it appears that looking at life through the lens of humour can mitigate against the seriousness of a stressful situation. It does not make the situation less stressful or imply that those involved are trivialising it or making fun of another’s pain and suffering; it is simply another way of seeing the world as well as a means of distancing oneself from a painful reality or a situation outside one’s control.
44 CHAPTER 3 RESEARCH METHODOLOGY
My research included reading a range of fictional works, including historical and classical fiction. From them I learned that in the early part of the twentieth century, babies and children were susceptible to illnesses such as dysentery, typhoid fever and diphtheria, with families losing all or several of their children in a single outbreak of disease (Griffin & Tobin 1982, p. 53). I was reminded of a visit I made to St Peters Cemetery in Richmond, New South Wales, the final resting place of many of the early pioneer families in the Hawkesbury region. I felt sad as I wandered up and down the rows of graves. All those children, some barely days old, others in their late teens or early twenties. So many young lives cut short. How did their parents cope, I wondered, as I read the lists of names on the headstones. A hundred years later, women are having fewer children and generally they enjoy better health than previous generations. Children continue to die, albeit from different causes, and the loss of a child is still a harrowing experience.
Qualitative research The preferred research methodology was one that focused on qualitative research, what Alasuutari calls ‘traditional fieldwork’ (1995, p. 7). The rationale for this approach was based on Alasuutari's notion that qualitative material ‘is rich, multi-dimensional and complex, like life itself’ (p. 43). The interviews were unstructured, based on a series of prompts rather than a formal questionnaire. This technique, as Alasuutari points out, ‘comes quite close to a normal conversation’ (p. 87). This approach was particularly useful given the sensitivity of the subject matter. As I discovered, the material acquired during the course of my research was indeed lifelike and led to several shifts in the focus of my work as well as changes to the profile of one of my major fictional characters. In my view this demonstrates the value of the research material to the end product, the creative piece, which is shaped by lived experiences — including those of the author and participants — as well as having a sound theoretical base.
Clarifying the purpose to which the resulting material would be put was the first step in identifying an appropriate research methodology. In my case the material would be used to inform a piece of creative writing, which, in practice, involves ‘creative research’ (Carter 2004, p. 7). Such research can include interviews, reviewing relevant texts, undertaking
45 observations and conducting fieldwork. This chapter, then, examines the methods employed to undertake my research.
It is worth mentioning that researchers using more traditional, quantitative methodologies have concerns about the probability for bias in the convenience sample model. For example, Lohr claims the bias inherent in convenience sampling is that it attracts participants who are willing to be interviewed about the particular subject matter (1999, p5). In my situation, according to Lohr’s thesis, it could be argued that my participants were more likely to talk about their use of humour than if I had chosen a more random method of selecting participants. This was not the case. Although several participants provided numerous examples of the ways in which they use humour, other participants disagreed about the benefits of humour and said they had found no respite during a stressful or traumatic episode in their lives. There was one disadvantage in the participants knowing the purpose of the interview and the thesis topic in advance which was that four of them enthusiastically agreed that humour could be useful in difficult situations. Unfortunately they were unable to provide examples to support this claim nor could they expand on their initial statement. These interviews were tactfully terminated at this stage.
Fieldwork Part of the fieldwork included an examination of the ‘Laughter Club’ phenomenon, which began in Mumbai, India, in 1995, the brainchild of Dr Madan Kataria, a general practitioner. After attending several training courses I became a fully qualified ‘laughter leader’ and in December 2004 established a Laughter Club in Canberra. Participants in the Laughter Club volunteered to tell me their stories, usually about how laughter had helped them cope with physical or emotional pain. Publicity about the club led to invitations to undertake presentations and conduct workshops on laughter activities as well as providing laughter leader training at two local primary schools.
The fieldwork also included observing the participants in the study. This meant interpreting the ‘clues’ I noticed ‘in order to get “behind” the observations’ (Alasuutari 1995, p. 39). This was a useful exercise as it enabled me to build up the background to explain why people behaved in certain ways or said what they said when talking about their painful experiences. This data proved useful in preparing the creative piece.
46 Observations Acting on Alasuutari’s advice I was mindful of the need to establish a rationale for why I was undertaking observations as part of my research methodology. As Alasuutari says:
Without an explicitly defined method, without clear rules which tell what conclusions one is allowed to draw from different kinds of observations, research easily turns into an activity where you try to prove your prejudices right (1995, p. 41).
The observations involved selecting venues where I would have the opportunity to observe individuals as they witnessed or participated in activities associated with illness, death and dying. The chosen venues included the Australian War Memorial, a local crematorium, a children’s cemetery, a paediatric ward at a local hospital, a local hospice, and the Reveries: Photography & Mortality exhibition, where I could observe individual and group responses to memento mori.
I considered an observational approach was ‘in harmony with the theoretical framework of the study’ (Alasuutari 1995, p. 44). It allowed me to examine the different responses when people were faced with challenging and confrontational situations. These responses included non-verbal communication methods such as avoiding eye contact with other people, looking away from certain images, or using humour to defer abjection. For example, a middle-aged man laughed and shouted to his companions to ‘come and look at these pictures of premmie babies’. The images were, in fact, photographs of stillborn babies.
Ethics clearance Having decided to undertake interviews as part of my research, I was required to seek approval from the University of Canberra’s Committee for Ethics in Human Research. In my application for ‘Approval to Conduct Research with Human Participants’, I was asked if the project would be ‘likely to cause adverse reaction in the participants, including emotional distress’ and to ‘indicate the arrangements you have made to support the participants.’ As most of the participants would be drawn from professional bodies, I did not expect them to experience any distress. If they did, they had access to in-house counsellors and other counselling arrangements. I acknowledged that the bereaved parents could experience some distress. However, as they had access to professional assistance as well as other support, the potential for ‘emotional distress’ was minimised.
47 In May 2004, the Ethics Committee approved my application and I was free to start interviewing.
Theory of humour analysis The major motivation for my research arose from the current debate around the notion that humour and its companion, laughter — which has been popularly described as the best medicine — is universally good. Humour is a serious subject that has interested scholars and psychologists for over two thousand years, from Aristotle and Plato to Thomas Hobbes, Freud, Bergson and Bakhtin, and more recently Billig, Davis, Fry, Moran and Provine. Apart from an increased academic interest in the subject in the past thirty or so years, humour has also spawned a separate industry: the humour business. Practitioners such as Patch Adams and Peter Spitzer use clowning techniques as diversion and therapy in medical settings. Other practitioners are taking on the corporate world, cashing in on the alleged benefits of one of humour’s side effects, laughter, as a means of team-building, reducing stress, or improving both creativity and productivity. Dr Madan Kataria also uses laughter-generating activities as the basis for the worldwide Laughter Club movement, based on claims about laughter’s therapeutic benefit. Humour and laughter, however, are separate phenomena and I will discuss laughter, and Laughter Clubs, in a later chapter.
Interviews When I began my study I had no doubt about how to undertake the research. As well as reading relevant literature, I planned to talk to people who had, or still were, living with or working in traumatic situations. My plan included visits to relevant sites of interest and observing people’s behaviour. That was my idea of research. I imagined myself having completed this process, surrounded by books on anything vaguely relating to my chosen topic, sturdy folders bulging with copies of learned articles and conference papers, and a filing cabinet being the repository of interviewee transcripts. Then, and only then, would I begin the creative component of my thesis. It was a good plan but like many good plans it failed to translate into reality. The first obstacle was the amount of reading, reading, and reading. Most of it was interesting, even exciting, while some of it was yawn making. Within the first six months of embarking on my PhD journey I was ready to abandon ship. Then I heeded the advice of my then primary supervisor — to start writing. Looking back, it seems a logical thing to do but at the time it was a daunting task. How, I asked myself, could I begin to write about a subject I knew nothing about? Amazingly, I found that developing a chapter
48 outline, drawing up character profiles, and working on plot and structure helped me to identify the gaps in my knowledge.
Selecting participants Interview participants were recruited using convenience sampling. According to the Australian Bureau of Statistics, convenience sampling means that participants are selected only ‘if they can be accessed easily and conveniently’ (Education Services — Statistics — A Powerful Edge — Sampling Methods — Non-Random Sampling 2004). This method allowed me to target people within my personal and professional networks. In practice, I drew up a list of people with relevant experience who had agreed to talk to me about their experiences. Participants included health professionals and paraprofessionals, volunteers at a local hospice, hospital clowns, general practitioners, cancer survivors and their carers, a psychiatrist, nurses, a paramedic, a police officer, a hospital teacher and others with expertise in bereavement and coping with stressful and challenging situations. Although most of my participants came from within my network of contacts, a few were referred by people outside that network or by other participants during the interview, a process known as ‘snowballing’ (Dilley 2000, p. 132). One of the advantages in interviewing people who were, in the main, known to me, is that not only was it easier to establish rapport with the participant, it also made ‘pretension, lying, or play acting both unsuccessful and unlikely’ (Alasuutari 1995, p. 52).
Other participants in the study were the result of serendipity. For example, in 2004, after I had completed training to become a Laughter Club leader, I was contacted by ‘Angie’ who had completed the training a few months previously. I discovered that she had worked as a volunteer clown at a local hospital for several years. In November of that year she went to Russia for a month to work as a volunteer clown with Patch Adams.
It’s worth adding that researchers using more traditional, quantitative methodologies have concerns about the probability for bias in the convenience sample model. For example, Lohr claims the bias inherent in convenience sampling is that it attracts participants who are willing to be interviewed about the particular subject matter (1999, p5). In my situation, according to Lohr’s thesis, it could be argued that my participants were more likely to talk about their use of humour than if I had chosen a more random method of selecting participants. This was not the case. Although several participants provided numerous examples of the ways in which they use humour, other participants disagreed about the benefits of humour and said they had
49 found no respite during a stressful or traumatic episode in their lives. There was one disadvantage in the participants knowing the purpose of the interview and the thesis topic in advance which was that four of them enthusiastically agreed that humour could be useful in difficult situations. Unfortunately they were unable to provide examples to support this claim nor could they expand on their initial statement. These interviews were tactfully terminated at this stage.
I soon discovered that interviewing is not a one-way process; it also allows for self-reflection. There were times when the participants’ stories resonated with my own experience or they were so painful that I struggled to remain detached. Patrick Dilley talks about practicing self- reflexive interviewing, noting that, ‘interviewing is a complex process that involves multiple, simultaneous patterns of thought on the part of the interviewer.’ His tip for dealing with ‘feelings of discomfort or nervousness’ is to conduct more interviews, ‘often, and in different contexts, but always critically’ (Dilley 2000, p. 132).
The most helpful aspect of the self-reflective process was recognising that the participants wanted to tell their story — to me, and through me to a wider audience. I also found that the interviews could be therapeutic, a cathartic process, for some participants. For example, one participant whose premature baby had died shortly after birth a few months earlier said she wanted to talk about the loss of her child. However, family and friends thought that by not talking about it they were helping her to ‘get over it’. She added that at the time her child died, when ‘the shock and grief was overwhelming and occupied all my thoughts’ she found it helpful to talk to members of the SIDS and Kids organisation. Another participant, a male cancer survivor, talked about some of his funny experiences — usually the result of miscommunication — that had us both laughing out loud during the interview. He said this was the first time he’d laughed about his experience.
One of the most challenging interviews I conducted was with a bereaved parent. I had met her socially the year before I started my study and when I told her of my proposed research she volunteered to participate. I subsequently discovered that her son was the same age as my fictional character when he died, also the result of a brain tumour. During the interview I tried to stay detached but even as I listened while ‘Sara’ told me her about her son’s life and the initial feelings when the family learned he had cancer, I remembered an interview I’d had with a paramedic who told me how he had to distance himself from what was going on
50 around him. Otherwise, he explained, he couldn’t do his job. Like him, I found myself switching off part of my brain, the part that wanted to burst into tears, to sympathise with this woman, who like me, had experienced the wonder of pregnancy, the discomfort of labour, and the joy of giving birth to a healthy infant. Like me, she had watched her child grow from helpless newborn to inquisitive toddler, guiding him through his first days at school, celebrating his successes and encouraging him when he didn’t do as well as he wanted. Unlike me she had watched as her child suffered physical and emotional pain, as the life she had created and nurtured ended so cruelly and so soon.
We discussed whether it was better —better? — to lose a child to a slow killer like cancer or to a quicker death. We talked about parents who had lost a child because of an accident, or a sudden fatal illness, or something worse such as abduction or murder. This conversation made me uncomfortable but I managed to stay focussed. I took notes, made supportive and encouraging comments, conscious that part of me wanted to drift off to a safer place. At the time I felt I was an observer rather than an active participant in the conversation. This distancing of self, however, was my coping mechanism; this was not the place for humour.
Although this participant had volunteered to talk to me, I did not have enough background knowledge to know if it would be appropriate to introduce humour into the conversation nor did I pick up any cues to indicate that it would be acceptable. While listening to Sara’s story I realised that although I thought I’d covered every potential situation before starting my research I’d forgotten something, or rather, someone — me. I was aware of the participants’ needs, but despite my experience as a workplace counsellor, despite working with recently bereaved families and writing and conducting funeral services, despite having experienced grief and loss in my own family, I had not considered my needs, how I might feel when listening to the participants’ stories. I managed to cope with this dilemma by drawing on my active listening skills, noting that:
Listening requires more than one’s ears; it necessitates eye contact, understanding body language, and active mental consideration of both the content (words) and context (emotions) of what is being said, and not being said (Dilley 2000, p. 134).
I also reminded myself that no matter how much the participant’s story resonated with my life experiences, it is their story. I had to distance myself from my emotions and concentrate on my rational side, separate that persona from the me that was taking notes and making
51 encouraging and sympathetic sounds. Although these situations were emotionally challenging, I believe I was able to operate effectively. This is, however, one aspect of the ethics system that has so far been ignored. It is not enough to protect the interviewee from emotional distress; the interviewer also needs to be aware of the effect the process can have on them. I was lucky, I had previous experience and supportive colleagues who allowed me to debrief after an emotionally challenging experience.
During the interview process, as I listened to personal accounts of loss and grief, it seemed that almost everyone has a cancer story. I was reminded of the Buddhist story about a woman whose son had died. She was so stricken by grief that she walked around her village carrying her son’s body, asking for help to bring him back to life. Eventually she went to see the Buddha who said he would help if she brought him a handful of mustard seeds. But, he added, the seeds must come from a family that hadn’t known grief. The mother went to every house in the village but she could not find one home that hadn’t lost someone they loved. The message in the story is that death is a part of all our lives. But does that make the loss of a loved one easier to bear? Religious, spiritual, or philosophical beliefs might help, but not everyone has those to fall back on. And even those with long-standing beliefs may find themselves questioning those beliefs when faced with the imminent death of a child.
How to express the findings in a fictional form During the research process, I learned that writing is in itself research, what Paul Carter calls ‘creative research …an act of reflection and invention’ (2004, p. 191). Taking time to reflect on and problematise the research material was a useful exercise as it allowed me space to determine how to use the information already gathered and what else I needed to explore. Carter also posited that since all research requires imagination it is ‘unavoidably creative' and the term ‘creative research’ ought to be tautological. However, it remains in use because, according to Carter, ‘knowledge and creativity are conceived as mutually exclusive’ (p. 7). I quickly became aware of the notion of mutual exclusivity through the condescension shown towards creative researchers by non-academics as well as researchers in other, allegedly more academically rigorous, disciplines. In my case, however, I also faced the added disadvantage of undertaking research on humour, a topic that for many years has not been taken seriously. Indeed, laughter has been the common response from members of the public, academics and other researchers on learning that ‘humour’ is my research topic. In my struggle to defend my position I often fell back on the rigour of the research framework, in particular the review of
52 relevant literature because ‘“literature”, unlike humour, is a serious subject’ and enables the researcher to hide behind its ‘fig-leaf of “‘seriousness”’ (Paton & Powell 1988, p. xi). Armed with my protective ‘fig-leaf’, I felt better equipped to defend my decision to conduct loosely structured interviews with participants chosen using the convenience sampling method. The disparaging comments generated when I hinted at the proposed approach were mitigated when I mentioned that I was required to obtain approval from the university’s ethics committee; I was — almost — a real researcher.
I was therefore encouraged to read Carter’s statement that there is nothing mythical or mystical about the creative process as it can ‘stand up to rational enquiry’ (2004, p. xi). Although Carter is referring to non-textual creative practices (p. xi), the same imperative applies in producing other innovative works, including creative writing (p. 13). These words made me feel less vulnerable. I particularly appreciated Carter’s unambiguous assertion that when creating a piece of work, the artist (writer, poet, musician) is undertaking an act of research. The end product —a work of art, a creative piece, or a musical composition —is the result of creative research. This creative work provides a significant contribution to knowledge and, through exhibition or publication, is publicly available.
Carter’s concept of ‘material thinking’ affirms the role of thinking in the creative process. That is, the artist’s imagination, memories, dreams, life experiences, and ideologies form a major part of the research material. Artists look inwards and draw on this material to create a new or different perspective on how they see the world. This act of interpretation — or re-interpretation — can also be a call to action, a means of casting or re-casting light on a social issue that has been hiding in the shadow. In my creative piece I have sought to highlight the world of those living in the shadowland; those whose lives have been touched by serious illness, who are now forced to occupy an unreal space on the edge of what was once normality.
Prior to Carter’s groundbreaking work, Aquilla and Pallotta-Chiarolli noted that the source of research material is often the result of personal interviews and the researcher’s ‘raw material’ is “the emotions and experiences of the “researched”’ (1997, p. 1). In my case, this ‘raw material’ — along with a sizable dollop of material thinking — was then translated into an accessible narrative site, capable of reaching a wider audience than the immediate network of the researched. This need to reach a wider audience was my motivation to produce a creative
53 piece rather than a work of non-fiction. I considered that the story revealed through my research would be more easily accessible if it was written as a readerly text, rather than a more esoteric writerly text.
The creation of a fictional work Recording and re-telling the participant’s stories is an important part of the process that so far has been excluded from the debate about truth and fiction. And, as Duncker (2008) declares, ‘Writing enables us to escape our own death and go on speaking forever.’ Foucault also recognised the relationship between ‘writing and death’, referring to the act of writing as a ‘sacrifice of life itself’, making the author ‘a victim of his own writing’ (1991, p. 448). Foucault — who described authors as ‘initiators of discursive practices’ (p. 131) — suggests that the author (as object) has no purpose — no life — outside the text. Once the work is finished the author’s role is redundant; he or she has no more use than a male black widow spider that is consumed after mating. In real life, however, the author’s work, like the progeny of the unfortunate spider, lives on. Writing, like other art forms, is an act of creation; the end product — the manuscript, the published book, the sheaf of poems — continues to exist after the death of the writer. As long as the product remains in a readable condition the writer has achieved a kind of immortality. Their voice, their words, are accessible to future readers long after the author has died. And, unless they have been killed off, the characters continue to follow the path pre-determined by the author. The character’s appearance, behaviour, attitudes, and prejudices remain constant. These aspects, along with the setting, cultural mores and the societal values at the time of writing, serve as a memorial and enable future readers to recreate the past. Works by writers such as Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, William Shakespeare and Agatha Christie are read and performed long after the death of the authors, as well as being adapted for films, television and contemporary theatre. These literary time capsules ensure the survival of the author.
What the research did not examine As the focus of my study is on the effects of humour as a coping mechanism on the people using it I did not explore the function of jokes as a means of generating laughter. The rationale for this was based in part on Provine’s research into the role of jokes in producing laughter. Provine, a behavioural neurobiologist and pioneering laughter researcher, found that less than twenty per cent of laughter was in response to anything that could be said to resemble a joke (2000, p. 58). Even banal comments such as ‘Where have you been?’ or ‘It
54 was nice meeting you, too’ generated laughter (p. 58). Provine concluded that: ‘Playfulness, being in a group, and positive emotional tone mark the social settings of most laughs’ (p. 58).
In addition, the subject of jokes has been explored in-depth by Sigmund Freud in his seminal work Jokes and their relation to the unconscious (originally published in 1905). In his critique of Jokes, Michael Billig, Professor of Social Sciences at Loughborough University, notes that Freud considers jokes to be part of ‘the seemingly innocent world of fun’ (2005, p. 7). Billig adds that although jokes can give pleasure, although fun can be innocent, there is also the potential for jokes and ridicule to be a source of pain rather than innocent pleasure (2002, p. 453 & 2001, p.268). For this reason, the research did not examine the role of jokes as a means of responding to pain and trauma.
This chapter has outlined the approach taken in undertaking the research component. It has examined the methodology used, the process for selecting interview participants, and the interview format. It also explored my role as interviewer and my responses to the interview process; particularly those were the participants were sharing painful stories.
The next chapter explores the role, history and nature of humour. It also provides further examples of the extent to which humour can be beneficial even if it is not necessarily the best medicine.
55 CHAPTER 4 RESEARCH FINDINGS
As noted previously, humour is a complex and capricious creature. My first challenge, therefore, was to clarify what it is. I did this by adopting Moran’s definition of humour which centres on what she calls ‘the funny’ (2007, p. 31).
As well as providing a simple definition, Moran adds that the various connotations for humour depend on the situation and context in which it is used (2007, p. 31). The contextual and situational nature of humour was demonstrated during the course of my research with several participants claiming to have used humour in traumatic situations. Unfortunately many were unable to provide specific examples. Typically, participant would explain that something was said or done to make them laugh, adding that this ‘something’ would probably not be considered funny outside a particular setting, such as an operating room. In other words, ‘you had to be there’ to see ‘the funny’ (2007, pers. comm., 18 November).
Humorists and agelasts One of the common assumptions about humour is that it is universally beneficial. This assumption was repeated again and again during my interviews with participants, often accompanied by a maxim to support that view, the most common being ‘it’s better to laugh than cry’, followed by ‘laugh and the world laughs with you’, and even a Biblical reference: ‘a joyful heart is good medicine’ (Proverbs 17:22). I felt that the participants provided these affirmations as evidence; that is, everyone says that laughter is good for you therefore it must be so. Although the majority of interviewees in my study support this view — at least to the extent that humour is an effective communication tool — I was unable to find any evidence-based research that categorically confirmed the overall beneficial effects of humour and laughter. Despite the limited research into the effects of laughter, the myths about its therapeutic benefits are still common currency. Billig demonstrated this when he examined the perception that a sense of humour is considered a desirable quality. He referred to a survey conducted in 2003 by a British newspaper that revealed that 94 per cent of females and 92 per cent of males preferred ‘their partner to be humorous rather than serious’ (2005, p. 11).
A separate study of personal advertisements in American newspapers suggested that 12.5 per cent of those seeking a partner referred to their own sense of humour or identified it as a desirable characteristic in a prospective partner (pp. 11-12). Billig suggests that ‘we belong to
56 a society in which fun has become an imperative and humour is seen as a necessary quality for being fully human’ (p. 13). This is a bold statement and one that I suspect does not have universal support, especially by that group of humans, known as agelasts, who never laugh and who despise laughter (2005, p. 26). I came across an agelast at a local hospital, who, according to his colleagues, chooses not to laugh in case his patients don’t take him seriously. Perhaps he is unaware of Patch Adams’s recommendation that doctors should ‘put humour in the public space with a smile on the face, a twinkle in the eyes, and a willingness to greet each person’ (2002, p. 448). On the other hand, the specialist may be gelotophobic, which is a phobia in which the person with the condition has ‘a pathological fear of appearing an object of ridicule’ (Milner Davis 2008). This may explain why so many people are terrified of public speaking. For gelotophobics, however, any social situation, even work, can be stressful because they believe they are constantly being evaluated ‘for ridiculousness and thus fear being exposed to laughter’ (2008).
Overall findings The purpose of the research was to examine what function humour serves in dealing with pain and how can that be represented in fiction. In undertaking this research I obtained qualitative information about the mechanisms people use to help them cope in traumatic situations and the extent to which humour was used as a coping mechanism. An in-depth survey approach was chosen as the most appropriate method of obtaining qualitative data about this potentially painful subject. In-depth interviews were conducted using convenience sampling to select the cohort. A total of 54 interviews (n=54) were conducted to provide the background data for the creative piece.
The majority of participants, that is, more than 90 per cent, claimed to use humour as a coping mechanism. The ways in which humour was used were consistent across this cohort. The examples provided indicate that the types of humour employed were generally of a category that would be considered inappropriate in other situations. No further analysis of the data was undertaken as the primary focus of my thesis was on how humour might affect those in the sphere rather than on those witnessing the humour event.
57 Participants who claimed to use humour as a coping mechanism were asked to provide examples of the ways in which they had used — or continue to use — humour to help them cope with potential or actual traumatic events. These responses were used to inform the creative piece.
The benefits of humour As noted above, the overall findings of my research suggest that humour does have some positive benefits. For example, humour can be a means of coping with stress by providing a ‘mechanism for self-preservation’ until the individual is ‘better able emotionally to cope with the source of the stress’ (Robinson 1970, p. 1068). Although the use of certain types of humour, such as black humour or medical slang, may not be appropriate to those outside their ludic sphere, it can be a useful means of providing temporary respite for those living or working in difficult, and sometimes horrific, situations. In these situations, people — such as emergency services personnel and medical and para-medical practitioners — do what they have to do, and humour can be a means of distancing themselves from is happening around them. Does it matter if the humour used if offensive, cruel, or dehumanising? There comes a time when we can ‘weep no more’ because, as Shakespeare declared in King Lear ‘that way madness lies’ (3. 4. 21).
Heroic humour can be a useful way of coping with a disability or an illness by putting on a brave face as a shield to protect other people from the awfulness of a situation. The following story illustrates this type of humour:
‘Jennie’ is a survivor of the Canberra bushfires of 18 January 2003 that destroyed her home. Luckily no one in Jennie’s family was hurt. However, although Jennie has helped many people cope with grief, she found it hard to accept that she had lost everything she owned; all her memories were gone. Her teenage son had bought a new bed just days before the fire and asked for it to be delivered immediately. It had arrived on Thursday and was destroyed on Saturday. Days later he joked that he’d spent $1,500 on a bed for two nights and didn’t even get room service. His family joined in his laughter, noting afterwards that it was the first time they had laughed since the fire event. It was a significant turning point in the family’s recovery process (2005, pers. comm., 26 April).
Abjection, humour and control As discussed in the previous chapter, my research was primarily focused on two types of humour: heroic and self-deprecating/self-defeating humour. Each type of humour is a useful
58 means of coping with abjection and are practised by those living and working in challenging situations. As many participants acknowledged, humour, even inappropriate and black humour, helped them to cope with terrible and stressful situations. It helped them to find a means of negotiating the abject without ‘themselves becoming abject’ (van der Riet 2006, p. 81). In her article about negotiating the abject in a palliative care setting, van der Riet describes an incident when she and another palliative care nurse were asked to care for a patient admitted with end stage cancer:
Nothing had prepared us for what we saw. We had to cut the clothes off her damaged body. The stench of tumour, urine and faeces was overwhelming and her fungating tumour was one of the worst I had ever seen. The whole of her anus and genital area were eaten away by the tumor [sic] and was a mass of rotting and cavenous flesh. In the midst of ‘cleaning her up’, a young graduate nurse came into the room and quickly ran out dry-retching. Abjection was inscribed in [the patient’s] corporeal body. Her body’s boundaries were permeable and vulnerable (2006, p. 81).
This situation exemplifies the challenges faced by many health professionals as they undertake their daily tasks of caring for people in pain and stress. Humour is one means of relieving the stress of caring.
More than forty years ago Esslin explored the notion of absurdity and the darker side of humour, for example: sex and death (1972, p.232), animal cruelty (p. 320), and gallows humour (p. 335). Following on from this, American academic William Oliver advocated that human existence is absurd because we have no control over matters of life and death, claiming we are: ‘trapped within our body and our reason, unable to conceive of a time in which we were not, or a time in which we will not be…’ (1963, p. 225). Like Oliver, Esslin recognises the inevitability of death, claiming that the human condition is absurd, meaningless (1968, p. 24). Given this, he suggests that we should accept the absurdities of life — such as fear, disease, and depression — acknowledging that although there is nothing anyone can do to change a challenging situation they can change the way they respond. The ability to accept the unacceptable enables them to regain control of their life, even when it is temporarily or permanently out of joint. For example, ‘Nancy’ has a severe hearing loss. At work she has a sign to alert visitors to her condition: ‘I’m not deaf, I’m just ignoring you.’ Perhaps this use of heroic humour is her way of maintaining control of an otherwise uncontrollable situation.
59 Chris Powell suggests that humour is ‘the baseline of social control’, differentiating between the ‘normal’ from the ‘abnormal’ (1988, p. 99). I have adopted this concept in my creative piece in which Maggie and Sam rely on humour in their interactions, both with each other and with other people, as a means of maintaining that ‘baseline of social control’ (p. 99). Humour is their anchor, enabling them to maintain their grip on a new normality. As Bakhtin also points out, laughter can help people to overcome their fear. This ‘victory laughter’ can provide a new outlook on life, even if only for a short time, enabling the individual to cope with a situation that would otherwise be beyond their control (1984, p. 91).
The following story provides a practical example of the way in which humour was used to reframe a situation where a patient was in the grip of the abject:
‘Angie’ is a hospital clown. One day she visited a patient who had recently had surgery to remove his left leg from below the knee. She took out a plastic skeleton hand from her bag of tricks, held it against the bandaged stump and said: ‘I think this will fit.’ The patient’s initial reaction was a shocked gasp but he then started to laugh. Staff later told Angie that until then the man had been depressed and unwilling to participate in his rehabilitation. This incident was a turning point for the patient who went on to take an active role in his rehabilitation program (2004, pers. comm., 15 October).
Humour as a coping mechanism As mentioned previously, although it is difficult to laugh when we are angry or overcome with grief or sadness, someone who is grieving may defer their grief if something unexpected happens to make them laugh. Bergson claims that laughter ‘is incompatible with emotion’ (1956, p.150). Humour can serve as a release, a means of reducing carer fatigue, and of escaping a stressful situation or grief, even if only temporarily (Atkinson 2006, p. 437). For example, ‘Pam’ and her mother were in tears as they accepted condolences from mourners after the funeral of Pam’s father, ‘Ted’. One of the mourners, an old family friend, stopped to speak to Pam and her mother. Looking at the departing mourners he said: ‘Ted had so many friends — and nearly all of them owed him money.’ Pam and her mother burst out laughing, a spontaneous response to a comment that was outside what was accepted in that situation. This unexpected incident provided a momentary respite from their grief. As Atkinson states, mourners ‘can assume a humorous perspective merely for a moment … and then return almost immediately to his experience of grief’ (2006, p. 439). This behaviour is explained by the incongruity theory of humour and happens when people laugh at the unexpected or bizarre. A second theory — the relief theory — is also relevant when people use laughter to
60 release pent-up nervous energy (Morreal 1983, pp. 243-247; Critchley 2002, p. 25). As Atkinson explains: ‘It accounts for why people might laugh when they are really angry, grief stricken or sexually aroused’ because ‘it takes energy to repress uncomfortable feelings’ (pp. 437-438).
Kundera says of this type of behaviour that when: 'Someone's hat falls on the coffin in a freshly dug grave, the funeral loses its meaning and laughter is born’ (1996a, pp. 232-33). Conversely, Esslin says, ‘Everything is funny until the horror of the human situation rises to the surface’ (1972, p. 272). This was what happened when I was interviewing the bereaved mother mentioned earlier. Her story reminded me of me as a mother; it forced me to imagine a situation in which her story could be my story. It also made me realise that there are situations in which the use of humour would be inappropriate. Humour is, after all, contextual and situational.
A temporary reprieve from the stress of caring can reduce tension and help those involved to cope better with the situation. This is particularly the case for health practitioners and professionals with several recent studies suggesting that, if used appropriately, humour can be an effective coping mechanism. Åstedt-Kurki and Isola (2001), for example, undertook a study of 16 nurses to examine the use of humour between nurses and patients, and amongst staff. The result reveal that both patient and nurse use humour to cope with ‘unpleasant procedures’ and ‘embarrassing and difficult situations’. It also provides ‘patients with an outlet for feelings that otherwise might be hard to express’ and helps nurses to do their job by relieving ‘tension within the ward, which resulted in a more liberated and improved working climate’ (p. 457).
A participant in my study, a nurse in the paediatric oncology ward of a major children’s hospital, said the sound of laughter helped to reduce stress and provided temporary respite from the stress of caring. She said that she and other staff were caring for an eighteen-month-old baby born with cancer. There were times when staff felt helpless because they were unable to comfort the child as she screamed with pain. All they could do was make the child as comfortable as possible and support the parents as they waited for their child to die. During this period staff would take time to find something funny and shared these special moments with each other. Without this release the situation would have been unendurable.
61 Wooten and Dunkelblau also examined the use of humour as a coping mechanism and conclude that:
Humor can help us survive even during horrible events like the World Trade Center (WTC) attack. One survivor reports a group of office workers who were running down flight after flight of steps, not knowing if they had the strength to make it to the bottom. By the time they had reached the 11th floor, they were exhausted and couldn't go on. Then one woman suggested that they pretend it was New Year's Eve. En masse they began a countdown with each flight of stairs and shouted out. “10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.” This ‘game’ gave them the distraction and energy they needed. Encouraged by the levity, they all made it to the street and to safety (2001, p. 1).
This story, like Milner Davis’s story about the use of humour by survivors of Nazi death camps, exemplifies the extent to which humour can be used to separate the self from a painful reality (Bury 2001, p. 278).
Other coping mechanisms Five of the fifty-four people interviewed said they did not use humour as a coping mechanism. They admitted at times to feeling extremely stressed and ‘panicky’ during difficult or traumatic situations. One, a former police officer in New South Wales, said she resigned because her male colleagues used inappropriate humour to debrief after a particularly serious incident in Redfern when a woman was raped and murdered. The interviewee said she felt that her colleagues were laughing at what had happened to the victim and she saw this as condoning the behaviour of the perpetrators.
Two other participants said they reacted to grief and stress by physical activity such as housework, gardening, or walking. This is the body’s way of disposing of the build up of adrenaline and is a common response after a bereavement, which is considered to be ‘the most potent form of stress the body has to withstand’ (McKissock 1992, pp. 16-17).
Another participant was an Australian Government official working in Bali shortly after the bombings of 12 October 2002 that killed 202 people, including 89 Australians, and injured many more. The official’s duties included supporting family and friends of the dead and injured. This meant taking family members to makeshift morgues to identify the remains of their loved ones. The official confided that on most evenings he and his colleagues ‘got
62 together with ‘Dr Bintang’ [the local beer] to debrief and dump on the issues of the day’ (2007, pers. comm., 27 & 29 March).
Reducing stress and pain Several participants in my study claimed to have used humour as a means of reducing stress. Researchers such as Åstedt-Kurki and Isola (2001), Moran and Massam (1997), Sheldon (1996), Cann (1999) and Struthers (1999) also support the role of humour to reduce stress. Cann and colleagues, for example, conducted a study using 96 undergraduate psychology students to test the efficacy of humour in reducing stress. The study concluded that there was a correlation between the positive effects of humour and reduced stress levels, particularly for those who ‘claim to value the use of humor as a coping strategy’ (Cann 1999, p. 191). Sylvia Mauger, a stress management counsellor, cautions ‘this does not imply that every stress management counsellor can laugh and joke their way through every session with every client’. She adds that ‘laughing together can act, not only as a tool of communication, but can strengthen the bond between the two people concerned’ (2001, p. 1).
Dr Spitzer (2008) provided a practical example of benefits of humour in reducing pain and stress when he showed a video of an 11-year-old boy with severe burns to more than fifty per cent of his body. The boy was in a great deal of pain and hospital staff were unable to provide any more pain relief. Dr Spitzer and his fellow clown doctors were asked to use their clowning skills to distract the boy so that nurses could change his dressings. Within minutes the patient went from rolling around on the bed, screaming in pain, to engaging with Dr Spitzer and colleagues. The antics of the clown doctors provided the boy with temporary respite from his pain and relieved the stress of his parents and those caring for him.
Enhanced communication A number of participants in my study said they found humour to be an effective way of communication when faced with a painful or challenging situation. This finding is supported by several studies (Åstedt-Kurki & Isola 2001; Sheldon 1996), which suggest that humour can enable the individuals concerned to interact without losing face or confronting their fear. Åstedt-Kurki and Isola (2001, pp. 453 & 457) noted the ‘unique genre’ of ‘black humour’ that was used by seriously ill patients to communicate with each other and medical staff. Mulkay provided an example of how this type of humour can help patients to introduce the subject of their impending death into the conversation: a patient, laughing as nursing staff struggled to
63 lift her onto a bedpan, asked them not to laugh at her. When the senior nurse argued that she, the patient, was laughing, the patient responded that it was different for her: ‘If I’m going to die, I may as well die laughing’ (1988, pp. 80-81).
One of my interviewees, a general practitioner, claimed that she often used humour as a communication tool. She added that there is a skill in knowing when and how to use humour in the patient/doctor relationship. She said she wouldn’t use humour unless she picked up a cue from the patient, or if the patient initiated the humour. She gave an example of this when a patient, having learnt that their condition was terminal, said: ‘At least I won’t have to complete this year’s tax return’. This set the pattern for the method of communication between doctor and patient, one that relied heavily on humour. The doctor added: ‘Sometimes laugher is the only gift I can give to a very sick patient. It is a moment’s respite from their serious illness’ (2005, pers. comm., 6 May).
Another interviewee supported the role of humour in breaking down barriers and enhancing the doctor/parent relationship. This participant had breast cancer and was due to have a double mastectomy. The surgeon told her the operation would take several hours as it required the removal of both breasts and lymph glands. A plastic surgeon would then perform the reconstruction operation, taking excess fat from the abdomen and remodelling her breasts. He told her not to worry, adding: ‘Lots of women pay thousands for a tummy tuck and a boob job’ (2008, pers. comm., 21 March).
The role of black/in-house humour During my research participants provided me with several examples of the use of black humour. For example, a nurse on the paediatric ward told me that nurses often use inappropriate, or black, humour to handle the stress of long-term caring for a boy who was born severely brain damaged. The boy has been in hospital since birth and will spend the rest of his life in hospital. He needs constant intensive care as he is unable to move or communicate. Only the boy’s head can be seen above the blankets, and, as he has very little hair, his family provide him with colourful beanies. This is the only thing they can give to their child. The nurses consider the task of caring for this child demanding, time consuming and unrewarding. One nurse, talking about the patient’s quality of life, called him a ‘boulder in a beanie’. This made the other nurses laugh and served as means of reducing the stress of caring for this patient.
64 Another example was provided by ‘Diane’, a paediatric nurse with over 30 years experience, who confided that shortly after the events of 11 September 2002 a staff member on night duty draped a checked tea towel around the head of a comatose Muslin boy and wrote ‘Bin Laden’ on a sheet of paper which she pinned on the wall above his bead. Staff who saw the sign, laughed. Although the nurse’s action was racist and offensive, it provided staff with an emotional release. Whether the potential benefits of that temporary respite justifies this type of behaviour is beyond the scope of this study.
In a study on the use of humour by nurses, Åstedt-Kurki and Isola found it could also serve as a defence mechanism to help nursing staff cope with difficult situations, for example when dealing with ‘very difficult and irritable patients’ (2001, p. 453). Humour was a means of reducing tension and conflict as well as providing an ‘outlet for emotions that might otherwise be hard to express’ (p. 457).
Humour research Humour research is not a new phenomenon. Plato, Aristotle, Kant, Freud, Spencer, Hobbes, Rabelais, Voltaire, Bakhtin, and Bergson have all examined the nature and purpose of humour. More recently practitioners and researchers such as Lee Berk, William Fry, Patty Wooten, Ed Dunkelblau, Robert Provine and Hunter (Patch) Adams have explored the effects of laughter on health and wellbeing. Provine, for example, asks the question: ‘Does laughter, a sense of humour, or a lighthearted personality improve your health, add years to your life, prevent the common cold, or alleviate pain?’ He concludes that studies conducted so far on the use of humour and laughter as ‘a healthful antidote to life’s miseries’ are inconclusive. He advises that the best way to avoid stress is to ‘hang around the house, play with friends and family — and avoid fights with your boss’ (Provine 2000, p. 197).
Despite the growing interest in the therapeutic effects of laughter, empirical research into the alleged benefits did not start until the 1960s. This delay was partly because of problems in developing a robust research methodology and partly because the subject was not considered a ‘worthy subject for study’ (Milner Davis 1996, p. 79). It wasn’t until the end of the 1960s that articles on ‘truly scientific studies of laughter’ began to appear in reputable scientific journals (p. 79). Anecdotal cases such as that of Norman Cousins added a further impetus to the debate on the purported health benefits of laughter. Cousins allegedly claimed that he laughed himself back to health by watching episodes of Candid Camera and movies by the
65 Marx Brothers during his recovery in 1964 from a painful, and usually terminal, degenerative disease of the spine. Although Cousins stressed that other therapies beside laughter had beneficial effects on his health and wellbeing (Cousins 1979, p. 27), his call for caution has largely been ignored (Moran 2007, p. 33).
Several studies have been undertaken over the past thirty or so years but so far they have failed to demonstrate a clear correlation between humour and health. For example, an Australian study conducted by Boyle and Joss-Reid involving around 500 participants comprising three groups (community group, university students, and respondents with a medical condition) revealed that having a sense of humour is no guarantee of good health (2004, p. 62).
Provine adds weight to the call for a scientific approach for studying laughter rather than small-scale research projects where ‘logic and anecdote, not empirical data, reign’ (2000, p. 11). Despite their weighty contributions to the study of humour, Provine considers Bergson and Freud ‘prescientific investigators’ (2000, p. 11). Michael Billig took Provine’s comments on board, challenging the ‘common sense assumptions about humour’s goodness’ (2005, p. 3), particularly the ‘pressure to believe in the positive benefits of humour.’ Billig refers to Provine’s scepticism about the medicinal value of laughter, in particular:
the widespread publicity given to three small-scale studies purportedly showing that humour increases the power of the immune system. All three studies were methodologically flawed and were only published as abstracts and not as full reports (see also Martin, 2001). Despite all this, they have been cited as established fact. According to Provine: “it’s sobering to realise that these three abstracts are the basis of much of the folklore about laughter’s positive effects on the immune function.” (2005, p. 21).
Laughter Clubs My research included an examination of the Laughter Club phenomenon. Laughter Clubs were started by Dr Madan Kataria, a general practitioner in Mumbai, India, in 1995, According to Kataria, laughter can reduce stress, increase the level of antibodies to fight infections, and reduce high blood pressure. It is also an aerobic activity like ‘internal jogging’ and can make participants look younger (2002, pp. 71-75). I was impressed and, in the interests of research, I made further enquiries.
66 I found out that although there used to be a Laughter Club in Canberra it had been disbanded. I tried several times to contact the two former leaders of the club but my calls were not returned. I never discovered the reason for their reluctance to talk to me.
In May 2004 I contacted the coordinator of the Laughter Clubs in New South Wales. A few weeks later, after a very early start, I arrived in time to attend my first Laughter Club session in Hunters Hill, Sydney. It was a magical morning. I looked across the bay at the Sydney skyline — Centrepoint, the HIC Building, Tower Flats — and waited for the clowns to arrive. At nine o'clock the leader drove up, followed shortly by several other people, both couples and singles.
Then the fun began. I was introduced to the other participants and, after some gentle stretching exercises, took part in the ‘greeting laugh’. This involved walking around a group of strangers, making eye contact, shaking hands or doing a ‘high five’ and laughing. As the leader explained, we are laughing with each other not at each other. We were also reminded that the body is unable to tell the difference between real and fake laughter, and, because laughter is contagious, eventually the laughter becomes real. So, if we want enjoy the beneficial effects of laughter, the advice is to ‘fake it till you make it.’
That first experience was daunting. The most challenging part was when the participants — all strangers — formed a circle around me and rushed towards me — laughing. I had no idea what they were going to do and felt threatened. I reminded myself that they were not laughing at me but it was nevertheless a daunting experience. Luckily I fought the impulse to run away. I even managed to cope with being the focus of attention of by-passers. Some spectators appeared not to notice the large group of people laughing away in a public park while others openly stared, and some even stopped to watch. The leader had propped up a sign announcing the activity as a ‘Laughter Club’ event and invited spectators to join in. No one took up the offer, although at a similar event in Chatswood some spectators joined in.
In August 2004 I attended a ‘Laugh for Life’ course in Melbourne. I later returned to Sydney to complete the training to become qualified as a Laughter Leader. In December that year I started a Laughter Club in Canberra. Five people came to that first session — the same number Dr Kataria had at his first meeting. I contacted the local media to promote the club
67 and I was interviewed by the electronic and print media with articles published in several local and interstate newspapers and an appearance on ABC’s Stateline.
What happens at a Laughter Club? The format for Laughter Club sessions is flexible and leaders and participants can choose what activities to do, or can invent new ones. Having said that, there are elements common to all sessions. For example, at the beginning of each thirty-minute session the leader reads out a list of conditions for which laughter activities might be unsuitable. These conditions include: recent chest or abdominal surgery; pregnancy; angina or chest pain; hernia; severe cough, cold or influenza; dizziness; glaucoma; untreated high blood pressure or asthma; and haemorrhoids.
The leader then reminds regular and any new participants of the philosophy of the Laughter Club movement, the alleged benefits of laughter (even fake laughter) and the purpose of clapping hands in the prayer position — this supposedly stimulates acupressure points in the palms. The sessions then begins with participants performing gentle breathing and relaxation exercises and a few easy stretches. Then, on a count of three, they clap their hands while chanting ho, ho, ha, ha ha — this is based on yogic principles as the ‘ho’ requires inhalation and the ‘ha’ exhalation. Participants then engage in a series of activities to generate laughter. Activities vary from group to group and session to session but could include: the hot soup laugh where participants pretend they have eaten something hot so they flap their hands around their mouth and laugh in an attempt to cool it; the bobbing bird laugh where participants bob their head, say ‘ah’, look up and laugh; the Tarzan laugh which involves lightly tapping the thymus gland (located behind the breastbone) to stimulate the release of ‘T-cells’ which are alleged to fight infection; and the gradient laugh which involves frowning, smiling, giggling, then laughing, gradually increasing in tempo and volume. Each session ends with a relaxation exercise and an affirmation, for example, participants might clap while chanting: ‘I’m the happiest, healthiest person in the world.’
According to Dr Kataria, an important element in generating laughter is to make eye contact with other laughers because seeing and hearing someone else laugh makes it easier to laugh. As Bergson, Provine, and others have noted, it is difficult not to join in when we hear other people laugh. Even though it is fake it sounds real and, since the rest of the group are laughing, eventually it becomes real. This theory was demonstrated during the course of my
68 study with several participants saying they would join in when they heard others laugh even when they did not feel like it.
Each Laughter Club session includes a mix of standing and walking activities to stimulate laughter, interspersed with stretching and breathing exercises. The sessions last for around thirty minutes and are free. Some of the people who came to the Laughter Club said they did so because they were in pain and hoped that laughter would help them. Several participants at the club talked to me about their reasons for taking part. Some of them have arthritis, one said she is unable to move without pain following a major accident, another is living with HIV, one has lupus, and another has high blood pressure. Others said they came because they live alone and have no one to laugh with. They said they had forgotten how to laugh and needed to ‘reprogram themselves’.
Although I had initially felt uncomfortable about laughing in public I eventually overcame this as my confidence grew. It was interesting to see how other participants appeared to overcome any shyness they had about laughing with a group of strangers. Laughter, as has previously been noted, is a social activity (Provine 2000, p. 6; Bergson 1965, p. 65). In August 2005 I attended a week-long workshop conducted by Dr Kataria in Byron Bay. Although Dr Kataria had previously agreed to be interviewed, I was disappointed that, despite being a medical practitioner, he was unable to identify situations in which he had employed humour to good effect or to suggest examples of evidence-based research that support his claims. On the other hand, another medical practitioner I interviewed was able to provide several examples in which she had used humour with her patients, and a third said ‘I like to make a few jokes when I get home to relax’ and provided the following example:
I once saw an ad for a pain treatment in a medical newsletter and it had a picture of an old person covered in barbed wire with a tortured look on their face (trick photography). That night I made a joke about how old people will do anything if you pay them enough, even cover themselves in real barbed wire. My partner laughed because she recalled the ad (2004, pers. comm., 7 November).
The workshop with Dr Kataria was another disappointment. I discovered that the rationale for founding the Laughter Club movement was based on research from several out-dated small-scale studies and anecdotes, including those referred to by Provine, Sultanoff, and others as being flawed.
69 It is interesting that despite the various — and valid —arguments against the efficacy of laughter, the media still refers to representatives of the Laughter Club movement as a source of comment when writing about the benefits of laughter (Middleton 2008, p. B7). This may be because of the common sense — and popular — belief in the efficacy of humour. It would require a major rethink to challenge that belief. Provine, however, concedes that although there is no conclusive evidence that laughter can satisfy the clubbers ‘physiological wish list’ by lowering blood pressure, enhancing respiratory functions, and improving general fitness, participants ‘are certainly getting entertainment and companionship during their workouts’ (2000, p. 194). This was certainly my observation of Laughter Club participants.
I continued as leader of the Canberra Laughter Club until May 2006 when I handed over to a leader I had trained to take on that role. The club is still active.
Summary Despite the number of oft-quoted studies and anecdotes linking laughter to various health-related benefits, existing research does not demonstrate a sufficiently strong causal link between humour, health and wellbeing. The studies most commonly referred to are small scale and the participants do not adequately reflect the appropriate population. Sultanoff and others have examined the claims about the therapeutic effects of laughter and conclude that the assumptions about the benefits of laughter are ‘based on beliefs rather than data’ (1999, p 3). As Sultanoff points out: ‘It is one thing to “know” in our hearts and in our experience that humor is healthy, and it is quite another to support that conclusion with research’ (2006, pers. comm., 19 September).
Another outcome of my research is that I have moved from a position in which all humour is good humour to one where I recognise its darker side. I am also more sceptical about the allegations of humour’s healing properties. Whether humour and its physiological response, laughter, can reduce the signs of ageing, cure cancer, increase brainpower, or make people more creative is beyond the scope of this study. What the findings of my research suggest is that humour can play a useful role in helping people to cope in traumatic situations, whether as a means of respite from pain and stress or as a communication mechanism when talking about difficult or sensitive subjects. Humour can also provide a way of looking at a changed world, one where familiar boundaries and landscapes have been replaced by the frighteningly unknown. This shift in perspective can be the result of a sudden loss or other trauma such as a
70 diagnosis of a terminal illness. Whatever the cause, for the people involved there is a sense that what was once normal has become abnormal.
Apart from its negative aspects — such as ridiculing and belittling others and conforming to notions of difference against members of marginalised groups —humour appears to possess certain therapeutic benefits. In particular, it can play a significant role in helping people to cope with physical and psychological trauma by allowing them to maintain control of what would otherwise be unbearable. And that’s nothing to laugh at.
71 CHAPTER 5 THE CREATIVE PIECE
The raw material of our research is the emotions and experiences of the ‘researched’. Aquilla and Pallotta-Chiarolli 1997
In previous chapters I have discussed the research underpinning my creative project, the methodology for that research, and the rationale for producing a work of fiction. This chapter summarises the ways in which the literature review, participants’ stories, observations and fieldwork have been transformed into a work of fiction that illustrates the use of humour and its use as a means of coping with pain and stress. Examples of this include the passage in which Maggie, despite struggling with a seriously ill child, sets up a joke-like scenario when she tells her friend Rhonda about her (Maggie’s) new, rich boyfriend (p. 196).
Maggie has accepted the awfulness of the situation and deals with it by allowing herself to be satirical and critical across a range of situations and people, including those who are trying to help her, like Rhonda. Her means of coping with tragedy and the difficulties of life as a single mother involves a kind of dead pan- and low-key humour, for example, the way she describes her husband’s death when ‘he rode into the front of a petrol tanker’ (p. 129). Another example is her description of her former mother-in-law ‘clinging to my arm as if I might disappear’, which is exactly what Maggie does after her ex-husband’s funeral. This illustrates the ways in which Maggie uses self-deprecating humour, parody, and irony to minimise the ways she can be hurt. Maggie, however, has to be nice to some people, such as hospital staff and her work colleagues. She finds this stressful and deals with it by exhibiting, externally or internally, a form of dry or black humour as a safety valve, a means of releasing stress. It is through a tone that is largely scathing that she obtains a type of relief, for example, when she attends a meeting of a support group (pp. 232-234).
Another example of the use of humour in the creative piece is the way Sister Sassy (a clown nurse) appeals to the sense of humour of 13-year-old boys by putting apple juice in Sam’s specimen jar (p. 174). The reference to the South Park series is also relevant since the scatological and outrageous humour used in this series enables the young boy, Sam, to frame his fear of death in terms of an extreme humour that appeals to him. South Park is particularly pertinent as it involves the recurring image of a cartoon character (Kenny) who dies in most episodes but who is brought back life to appear in the next episode (p. 110).
72 Humour and fiction My research suggests that humour in fiction serves two purposes: the first is to allow the author and protagonists to communicate in difficult and painful situations; the second is to serve as a diversionary technique both within and outside the text, allowing some breathing space for the reader, some relief from an account of unrelenting misery. As seen in the literary review chapter, writers such as Dickens and Hardy had different approaches to raising awareness of the horrors taking place in the early part of the nineteenth century. Hardy in particular was not noted for injecting humour into his exposés of social injustices.
I had Hardy in mind when I started to write my creative piece, conscious that I did not want to produce a work that would be too painful to read. On the other hand I was not writing a funny book but was using humour to illustrate the ways in which it can serve as a means of dealing with physical and psychological pain, and how that can be represented in fiction. Allan Marshall’s use of humour in I can jump puddles (1995) provided a model for several passages featuring one of my major characters, Sam. Using humour when writing about a painful subject is not about trivialising the issue, nor is it about avoiding a difficult topic. Rather, as Professor Regina Barreca notes:
Humor allows us to redeem moments that might otherwise have been lost to pain or despair. Being able to laugh is sometimes more about working through an issue than it is about avoiding or treating it lightly (n.d.).
Research-based fiction The creative writer can provide a fresh perspective, one based on both research and imagination. For example, Peter Carey’s True History of the Kelly Gang (2002) and Vicki Hastrich’s The Great Arch (2008) demonstrate the authors’ skill in taking snippets of historical facts and melding them with real and imagined characters and situations to produce works of realistic, readable fiction. My goal was to combine factual material with my imagined reality to create a work of realistic fiction. The challenge is not only to tell a story that is true, but also as an author, an artist, I want to tell a creative truth. The first step in the transformation process is to ensure that the stories entrusted to me by my participants are not turned into a story that is overly sentimental or clichéd. In practice I have taken those elements of the interviews that best illustrate the ways in which people respond to pain and trauma, and how they have coped with the ensuing stress.
73 Style and tone One of the many challenges in producing a work of creative writing is how to use words that, like air and water, have been recycled countless times. The trick is to use those words skilfully, playfully; to rearrange them to make new meaning. I also chose to use a polyphonic narrative style, having both an adult and a child narrator and a mix of first and third person focalization. The mother, Maggie, as first person narrator, allows the reader to experience her painful story at an intimate level. The reader can also see what is behind her story through the use of third person narrative. This approach also allows the reader to see what is happening when Maggie is absent from the scene. Similarly, Sam’s journals, letters and conversations with friends provide an opportunity for readers to share his point of view. The multiplicity of narrators, voices and communication methods fits neatly into Bakhtin’s notion of heteroglossia, represented in the creative piece by the coexistence of different voices and focalisation (Bakhtin 1994, pp. 73-80). The use of humour in the novel adds another layer, serving up comedic episodes in what is a tragedy. This parallels Kristeva’s views on the significance of apocalyptic laughter as a means of drawing attention to the everyday, horrific reality of life. Toril Moi, in similar fashion, claims that in modern writing ‘laughter is silenced because it is not parody but murder and revolution’ (1986, p. 50).
The challenge to me as a writer, however, was how to give my characters a voice. I allowed Maggie, Sam’s mother, to speak in the first person because, although she is not the one with the terminal illness, this is her story. She is the one wondering why this had to happen, why it is happening to her child. She feels guilty because it is happening to her son and not to her. Her new relationship and her pregnancy highlight the poignancy of her situation. Sam also deserves a voice. His story is told through his mother’s narration and in the third person, which allows access to him during his mother’s absence. He also speaks in the first person through the medium of journals and letters and conversations with his friends. This also provides a means of injecting humour into the story. The other characters are focalised through a third person narrator. This focalization allows the reader to see these characters outside Maggie’s perspective.
One of the difficulties in writing a polyphonic novel is that the reader may prefer one character’s voice to another and therefore ignore the least favoured. I attempted to address this situation by having only one first person narrator. Because this narrator, Maggie, is the major protagonist, most of the novel has a first person narrator. The remainder of the novel is a mix
74 of third person and what I would describe as second-hand or indirect first person. That is, Sam’s story is told using an indirect first person voice through his writing. The aim was to produce a generous, multi-voiced and multi-layered yet playful narrative that will engage the reader as they explore the story through the different perspectives.
Characters In creating my characters I adopted Stephen King’s practice of using elements of the behaviours, both the good and the not so good, of real people (2000, pp. 223-226). Sue Page used this approach when writing her short story ‘Edged away from the primeval forest’ (2007a), in which she set out to produce ‘a believable fictional character’ based on an historical figure and her ‘information and imagination’ (2007b, p. 1). This was no easy task, she said, because: ‘As readers, we accept inconsistencies in real people that are unacceptable in fictional characters’ (2007b, p. 2). Grenville, on the other hand, argues that: ‘People aren’t consistent and characters don’t have to be either’ (1990, p. 38). However, the task of creating fictional but realistic characters based on real people locates the writer in a Catch-22 situation. Fictional characters have to be consistent enough to convince readers that their behaviours are in keeping with the persona created for them while at the same capable of surprising the reader when they display aberrant behaviours.
Constraints imposed on my project by the University of Canberra’s Committee for Ethics in Human Research required that ‘No fictional characters will feature the characteristics of a participant’ in the study. This presented some interesting challenges. In responding to these challenges I again drew on the experience of writers such as Stephen King who answers his own question as to whether fictional characters are ‘drawn directly from life’ with the advice that it is not to be recommended, at least not ‘on a one to one basis’, unless ‘you want to get sued or shot on your way to the mail-box’ (2000, p. 223). King, however, admits that he is the role model for some of his characters, adding that: ‘if you continue to write fiction, every character you create is partly you. When you ask yourself what a certain character will do given a certain set of circumstances, you’re making a decision based on what you yourself would … or wouldn’t do’ (2000, pp. 225-6). Like King, I too served as a role model — at least for some elements of her personality — when creating Maggie’s character. In doing so I heeded Kate Grenville’s advice about not basing a character too closely on a real person — although for a different reason to Stephen King. Grenville’s concern is that writers who base a character on someone they know might assume the reader knows as much about that person
75 as they do and ‘forget to tell the reader’ what they need to know (1990, p. 37). When writing my story I was careful to show the reader as much as possible about Maggie’s personality. The result is, I feel, a woman who, although in a terrible situation, is feisty and occasionally funny.
Another dilemma I encountered was how to transform my research into a work of fiction while being true to the findings of the qualitative research and literature review. As mentioned in the introduction, fiction can be a valid means of reporting research findings. Fiction can shine a light on the truth. I was delighted to discover that, according to her biographer Helen Rowley, author Christina Stead had invented nothing in her writing, ‘neither characters nor plots’ (Rowley 1993, p. vii). I was impressed; here was an author who had apparently managed to create a fictional world based on real life without making it boring or bizarre. The novel, The man who loved children, was supposedly based on Stead’s own family and ‘she had written the truth “word for word”’ (p. 29). Rowley admits that this is an unusual approach for a creative writer to take, ‘one which disowned the complex process of fictional transformation’ (p. 30). Like Rowley, I also consider the act of ‘fictional transformation’ to be an integral element in the creative process.
As poet Marianne Moore notes, poets create ‘imaginary gardens with real toads in them’ (1996, p. 1219). As a writer I create a fictional time and place and populate it with realistic characters. Like Dr Frankenstein, I appropriate various features and personalities from real people and mix them up to create a fictional character that is more real than the sum of the original parts.
76 Stranger than fiction
The reason that truth is stranger than fiction is that fiction has to have a rational thread running through it in order to be believable, whereas reality may be totally irrational. (attrib. Sydney J. Harris n.d.)
The discussion so far has focussed on the need to apply caution when turning fact into fiction. I now return to the reasons for fictionalising factual events and ask if this is because the truth might be too painful or unbelievable. An example of a story in which truth appears stranger than fiction is Augusten Burroughs’s Running with Scissors: a memoir, a supposedly true account of Burroughs's unorthodox childhood. At the age of twelve, Burroughs was sent to live in squalor, as well as physical and moral danger, with his mother's eccentric psychiatrist and unconventional family. It is debatable whether a fictional account of a similar life would be believable.
Turning reality into fiction As mentioned earlier, the dilemma in creating a fictional reality is that fiction, as its name implies, is artificial. Despite this, ‘it must somehow be true to hold the interest of its readers, to tell them about experiences at once imaginary and relevant to their own lives’ (Riffeterre 1990, pp. xii - xiv). Riffeterre suggests that works of fiction can become a truth for readers who are invited to share in the characters’ experiences, to take on board their perceptions of the world. It is this quality of being an active, rather than a passive, observer that engages readers and makes them sensitive to the character’s experiences. This view is supported by Graeme Kinross-Smith (1992) and Umberto Eco who claim that: ‘a text is frequently interpreted against the background of codes different from those intended by the author’ (1979, p. 8). Eco’s advice, therefore, is to write for an imagined ‘model reader’ who can interpret the text in the way the author intends (p. 17).
I followed Eco’s advice and kept my ‘model reader’ in mind when I was writing. This was a complex process as I recognised that readers bring their worldview and experiences into the creative mix. On the one hand I was writing a story that would resonate with the reader, on the other hand I was aware that the reader generates a meaning based on their imagination and experience. There is also the potential for the writer/reader dyad to backfire if the reader misunderstands or misinterprets the text. An example of this happened with the television comedy series Summer Heights High. The program lampooned the ecstasy-related death of a
77 fictional character — a blonde-haired teenager called Annabel. The parents of a 20-year-old woman — also blonde and also called Annabel — who had died as a result of ecstasy use, complained to the ABC about the perceived similarities in the show. The ABC’s managing director duly apologised to the parents, acknowledging it was a ‘horrible coincidence’ (Kirby 2007, p. 3).
I can empathise with Chris Lilley, creator of Summer Heights, as I found myself in a similar situation when, as mentioned in Chapter Two, I discovered that one of my interviewees had a son who had died of cancer when he was 12 years old. By the time I spoke to this participant I had already drafted a chapter outline and a character profile, including one for a 12-year-old boy with terminal cancer. Her son had died at the same age as my fictional child, and they both died of brain cancer. I managed to remain sympathetic during the interview although the other, more detached side, of me was already planning how I could adapt my character to make him less like the real boy. My response was once again to heed King’s advice about not basing a fictional character too closely on a real person. I experimented with various options, included changing the gender of my character or giving him a different terminal disease. Although this posed a challenge, it also provided me with an opportunity to develop my character more fully, to make him behave in ways his real life counterpart would not have considered. I made my character slightly older and in Year 7 at high school rather than in primary school. I felt this was a positive change as it gave me more flexibility; for example, my character experiences the pangs of first love. This makes his situation even more poignant.
I also made the setting and background of Sam and his family different from that of the real life counterparts. In the real life family, most of the events took place in another city whereas my story is set solely in Canberra. The real life family has two parents and more than one child; Sam is an only child with a widowed mother. The real family has strong religious beliefs whereas Sam’s family has no particular belief; they draw on their existing coping skills and develop new ways of dealing with the situation. On the other hand, like the real family, Sam’s and his mother use humour to reduce stress and when talking about things that would otherwise be too painful to discuss. Another difference is that the real boy died believing that he would get better. In my story, Sam, his family and friends have all accepted that he is going to die.
78 Apocalyptic laugher I chose to write about the death of a child because as a parent I cannot imagine anything worse than losing a child. My character, Sam, is on the cusp of adulthood; he’s old enough to know what’s going on but young enough not to take it too seriously. His mother, Maggie, is forced to face her own mortality as well as the final separation from her son, her body having expelled him some 13 years previously. She also feels a perverse sense of excitement; through her child she is now the focus of attention. The concept of abjection can be usefully applied to these diverse and complex emotions. As Kristeva states:
The abject is perverse because it neither gives up nor assumes a prohibition, a rule, or a law; but turns them aside, misleads, corrupts; uses them, takes advantage of them, the better to deny them. It kills in the name of life — a progressive despot; it lives at the behest of death … (1982, p. 15).
I drew on Kristeva’s notion of abjection and the role of ‘apocalyptic laugher’ in my creative piece to provide a framework in which Maggie, when faced with the breakdown of the symbolic order — in this case, a world in which the parent outlives their child —uses humour to help her when she is surrounded by abjection (1982, pp. 11–13 & 54). Both mother and son intuitively decided to use humour to protect them from their new reality, as well as means of dealing with pain. The following passage from the creative piece — in which Hannah, a nurse, has shaved Sam’s head before his operation — illustrates how this use of humour can be represented in fiction.
Hannah holds up a mirror so he can see his new look. He takes the mirror from her hands, tilting it this way and that as he admires his reflection. Satisfied, he hands it back. ‘Cool,’ he says, with a grin, ‘perhaps I should get it tattooed. What do you think, Mum?’ ‘About the tat?’ ‘No, my new look.’ I run my hands over his head, the skin soft and slippery, bones sliding smoothly under my fingers. I kiss the top of his head and sit back. ‘You look cute. Like Dopey in Snow White.’ Sam grimaces. ‘Not the look I was after.’ (p. 109).
At times humour lets them down and they fall back on anger and despair. Then, when the world is at its most crazy, something happens to put them back in their happy space and they
79 can reclaim some control over their lives. In this passage Sam is telling his mother how it feels to have a brain tumour:
‘It’s like having an alien inside my head.’ He smiles. ‘Maybe it’s not cancer, maybe …’ Sam’s voice becomes robotic, ‘maybe I’ve been taken over by a creature from o-u-t-e-r s-p-a-c-e.’ Oh Sam. I force myself to maintain eye contact. It’s not easy. Sam’s eyes are so clear and bright, so young and alive; they don’t belong in that old-man’s face. Sam’s the first to look away. He picks up his Stan doll and squeezes its hand. As if possessed, the doll begins to twitch. Eyes flashing it bursts out: ‘Dude, this is pretty fucked-up right here.’ (p. 183).
As Sam’s mother, Maggie blames herself for what is happening. Maggie is faced with losing both her son and her status as a mother. As a woman, she has learnt to deal with abjection when dealing with the loss of menstrual blood. This is a double loss as it signifies a failure to conceive, even if there had been no possibility of conception. During pregnancy she also experienced the loss of control over her body: swollen breasts and belly, vomiting, loss of bladder control. This situation was exacerbated during labour with the uncontrollable flow of amniotic fluid and uterine contractions. This is followed by the expulsion of the placenta and more blood loss. Then she watched her breasts fill with milk, watch her child suckle and dribble and change its nappies, cleaning up the excreta and urine that came from the milk she had created, from the child’s body she had also created. Now that child is ill, and she continually defers the abject in the form of the loss of his hair and bodily fluids as well as a body that while still alive is being corrupted from the inside; a body that was once inside her and is now beyond her control. Paradoxically, being newly pregnant heightens her awareness of her own body and the child growing inside her as well as that of her sick child. As Knapp claims:
In many ways the death of the child represents in a symbolic way the death of the self. Symbolically, a mother or father will die along with the child, only to survive in a damaged state with little or no desire to live today or plan for tomorrow’ (1986, p. 13).
Maggie has to temper her desire not to go on with the needs of her unborn child. William Verity, on the other hand, experienced this ‘damaged state’ when he and his wife’s struggled to survive the accidental death of their four-year-old daughter:
There were times when we could not be together and other times when we could not be apart. Statistics show that seven out of 10 couples do not survive the
80 death of a child because the tie that binds two people cannot sustain the hurricane that is unleashed (2007, p. 288).
Maggie struggles to stay in control, to maintain her authority, her maternal role, and hates knowing that other people — strangers — can help her son more than she can. She tries desperately to change the situation, to make everything all right, the way it used to be. Maggie is in a terrible situation, forced to face the abject, her son. She is aware of him changing, withdrawing from her. Maggie is reminded of their first separation when Sam slithered out of her body, the umbilical cord pulsing, separated but still joined, and later, when he was being weaned. During this stage he went from drinking only milk to eating solid food. It was also a time when his body changed, becoming longer and leaner as he moved from babyhood to becoming a toddler. His smell changed too; his milky breath became sour and his stools, previously almost odourless, took on a frightful adult stench. This time the process seems to be reversed; his body is shrinking. He is losing his hair mimicking the ageing process and yet becoming weak and dependent, baby-like. He doesn’t smell like a baby, his odour is that of sickness and decay. The familiar becomes unfamiliar; the form is fading, being replaced by a ghostly figure moving towards the borderlands of abjection. Confronted by the horror of abjection, Maggie wants to let go, to put an end to the situation, and to put an end to Sam’s suffering. This places her far beyond the normal sphere of existence; she is an unnatural mother, a mother who is waiting for her child to die. His death is the only way both of them can leave the site of abjection.
Maggie, Sam and his friends use the language of humour to show their contempt for the abject; they are not afraid to laugh at things that are normally considered disgusting and embarrassing. Sam, for example, pretends to drink his own urine (diluted apple juice) from a specimen container (p. 174). As his disease progresses he is aware that his body has let him down; he is growing weaker, and his mirror tells him that he looks more dead than alive. He uses humour to talk about the greatest fear of all, that of dying. Children learn about the facts of death in different ways, perhaps through the death of a pet, or a grandparent, later their own parents. Such deaths are a normal part of life. But when it’s the death of a friend, someone the same age, or a sibling, it takes on another dimension. For adults it is a reminder of our own mortality. The death of someone close means the bereaved person becomes the centre of attention, albeit for a short time. With all that attention, it is not surprising that the bereaved person feels flattered — and guilty because they feel that way. What better way for a 13-year-
81 old boy to face extreme abjection —his own mortality, his body the corpse — than with a smile?
Maggie’s situation illustrates the cycle of birth and death, of pain and joy. Despite the symbolic death of self, Maggie’s life will continue after Sam’s death through the birth of another child. Unlike Verity and his wife, Maggie is in a new relationship. Adam, Maggie’s new partner, cannot share Maggie’s pain. He can, however, experience the grief of loss, losing a child he has known and cared for, and the loss of the relationship he once had with Maggie. With Sam’s death, Maggie has changed; she is now a bereaved parent. Although her life will continue, it will be a different life.
Writing Maggie’s story caused me to reflect on the ways in which people adapt to the pain of loss. There’s something about the idea of a child being ill and in pain that tears at the heart, making adults despair. They don’t ask ‘why me?’ when they find out their child has cancer, they ask ‘why not me?’ There’s an overwhelming rush of love and anguish, a longing to stop what’s happening, to run away, even, or to sleep forever – or at least until it’s all over. But what does that mean? When is it over? When the child dies? Not even then. One of the participants in my study said that although the sense of loss might fade and memories become less painful, you can never forget.
Conclusion Paradoxically, the creative piece adds to the sum of human understanding by examining a subject that is considered beyond understanding, that is, the death of a child. For society in general, the death of a child echoes our deepest fears and engenders a sense of meaningless; it makes us question the way the world works. People coping with the death of a child can choose various ways of handling the situation, some may withdraw, respond with anger or violence, while others may turn to drugs, alcohol or religion. In my thesis I try to examine the ways in which a loving, lively and courageous single mother copes with the agony of losing her only child, recognising that there are many different ways of coping with the day-to-day stress of knowing that one’s child is dying and that humour of various kinds can play a significant part in dealing with that situation.
The framework for the creative piece is based on a review of relevant literature, fieldwork, observations and the ‘raw material’ provided by my participants (Aquilla & Pallotta-Chiarolli
82 1997, p. 1). I have tried to be faithful to these stories when re-casting them as a work of fiction, synthesising the participants’ stories to re-create a version of the truth that is, in a real sense, my story. I have also drawn on my imagination to create an event or a composite character — a nurse, say, or family friend. My aim was to produce fictional characters that are realistic enough to be convincing but not real enough to leave me feeling that I have betrayed or exploited the people on whom some of them are based. The end product is, I hope, a story that acknowledges the contributions made by participants and validates their painful experiences. I hope I have also provided participants with an opportunity to share their stories with a wider audience.
83 SUMMARY OF PARTICIPANTS
1 Bereaved parent 2 Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander ex-police officer 3 Bereaved parent 4 Laughter Club leader 5 Bereaved parent and cancer survivor 6 Government officer 7 Parent of seriously ill child 8 Cancer survivor, mother of son with mental illness and drug abuse issues 9 Primary school principal 10 Fund raiser for cancer research organisation 11 Primary school principal 12 University lecturer and cancer survivor 13 Volunteer palliative care worker 14 Operating theatre sister 15 Volunteer palliative care worker at a 16 Press adviser to a state Attorney-General local hospice 17 Psychiatrist 18 Widow of man killed in an industrial accident 19 Former paediatric oncology nurse 20 Wife of a government official posted overseas 21 General practitioner in suburban area 22 Former army officer 23 General practitioner in rural area 24 Former nurse, mother of a son with a disability 25 Cancer survivor 26 Former director of an aged care facility 27 Hospital teacher 28 Published poet with carer responsibilities 29 Hospital nurse/teacher’s aid 30 Former palliative care community nurse now working in palliative care area 31 Paramedic 32 Worker in palliative care area 33 Former paediatric oncology nurse 34 Worker in palliative care area 35 Recruitment officer 36 Palliative care nurse 37 Cancer survivor and hospital clown 38 Survivor of 2003 bushfires 39 ‘Laughter Club’ representative 40 Former policewoman 41 Cancer survivor 42 Primary school teacher and university tutor 43 Hospital clown 44 Cancer survivor and former high school teacher 45 Spouse of cancer survivor 46 Male year 7 student 47 Former primary school teacher and 48 Year 7 teacher partner of cancer survivor 49 Volunteer with a rural fire brigade 50 Former teacher at schools in remote Indigenous communities 51 Year 12 student 52 Hospital auxiliary staff 53 Young Muslim woman 54 Former nurse
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Swift, Graham 1996, Last Orders, Picador, London. The Chasers War on Everything 2007, television program, ABC 11 April. Thomas, Dylan 1952, Collected Poems of Dylan Thomas 1934 -1952, Dent & Sons, London. Thomas, H. & Sikora, K. 1995, Cancer: A Positive Approach, Thorsons, London. The Wiggles 1998, DVD, Roadshow Entertainment, ‘Rock-A-Bye Your Bear’ Yummy Yummy/Wiggle Time, Directed by Phil Cullen. Trotter, David 1991, ‘Theory and detective fiction’, Critical Quarterly, vol. 33, no. 2, pp. 66-77. Turner, Ethel 1992, Seven Little Australians, Angus & Robertson, Australia. van der Riet, Pamela, J. 2006, ‘A Palliative Care Story: Negotiating the abject’, Contemporary Nurse : A Journal for the Australian Nursing Profession, vol. 22, no. 1, pp. 81-83. van Santen, Jacquie 2004, ‘Funny doctors may miss the mark’, ABC Science Online, 28 April, viewed 19 October 2004 http://www.abc.net.au/science/news/stories/s1096580.htm Verity, William 2007, Bear is now asleep, Vintage Books, Sydney. Vorhaus, John 1994, The Comic Toolbox, Silman-James Press, Beverely Hills. Wells, Marguerite 2008, ‘Local Potency and the Comedy of Bad Language in English and Japanese’, paper presented at the Australasian Humour Scholars Network Colloquium, Sydney NSW, 16 February. Wilde, Oscar 1991, The Complete Illustrated Stories, Plays and Poems of Oscar Wilde, Chancellor Press, London. Williams, Alison 2006, ‘Sick humour, healthy laughter: the use of medicine in Rabelais’s jokes’, Modern Language Review, vol. 101, pp. 671-91. Modern Humanities Research Association. Wooten, P. & Dunkelblau, E. 2001, ‘Tragedy, Laughter, and Survival’, Nursing Spectrum: Career Fitness Online, viewed 28 January 2008 http://www.aath.org/articles/art_wootdunk1.html Wooten, Patty 1996, ‘Humor — An Antidote for Stress’, Holistic Nursing Practice, vol 10, no. 2, pp. 49-56. Worman, Nancy 2000, ‘Infection in the sentence: The Discourse on Disease in Sophocles’ Philoctetes’ Arethusa, vol. 33, no. 1, pp. 1-36. Young, Sherman 2007, The Book is Dead: Long Live the Book, University of New South Wales Press, Sydney. Zagdanski, Doris 1990, Something I’ve never felt before: How teenagers cope with grief, Hill of Content, Melbourne. Zunshine, Lisa 2006, Why We Read Fiction: Theory of Mind and the Novel, The Ohio State University Press, Columbus.
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A BUBBLEGUM FOREST
Chapter 1 The lights on Commonwealth Bridge flicker on, changing from dusky pink to brilliant white. I blink and look away. The line of cars in front of me creeps forward slowly, two, three metres at a time and then stops. I don’t mind traffic jams. They give me time to think, to plan; like what I’m going to do tonight. Nothing very exciting, dinner, walk the dog, wash up, perhaps a game of Scrabble if Sam still wants to play with me after what happened last time. I thrashed him. He said most parents cheat so their kids win, but his mother cheats so she can win. Not true. I can’t help it if I’m smarter than a seventh-grader.
I’m getting bored now. Canberra’s rush hour isn’t as bad as in other cities but I’ve had enough, I want to go home. Especially now I’ve got my evening all worked out. I smile, imagining Sam’s face when he find out what we’re having for dinner. His favourite, stir-fry chicken and noodles with black bean sauce.
A blaring horn frightens me back to reality. Guiltily I assume someone is blaring at me but it’s aimed at the poor sod in the next lane. He’d dared to overtake a new-looking Mazda with his ageing Valiant sedan. Good on him, I think, relaxing now I know I’m not to blame. The Mazda goes screaming ahead. I feel smug when I pull up alongside him at the next set of lights. I let him get ahead when the lights change; I can’t handle road rage.
Home at last. I lock the car door and head for the house. The lights aren’t on. Panic, then I remember — Sam’s going to Brett’s after school. He must still be on his way home. Relax. The phone starts ringing as I struggle to open the door. I drop everything. It’s probably Sam, letting me know he’s running late. Or it could be Joel, my ex. I feel sick at the thought of listening to him whining. I grab the phone. “Hello … hello.” They hang up. Was it something I said? I’m not worried; they’ll call back if it’s important.
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Chapter 2 It didn’t look like a body. Jade had stopped to admire the sunset, sky streaked like strawberry frappé, and then she went back to sulking. Alex had seriously pissed her off. Jessica Blakely. How could he? He knows we hate each other. Tears stung her eyes; she let them fall. As she got closer, the mystery object looked like a garbage bag. It’s lying next to an abandoned shopping trolley. She ran. It isn’t a trolley; it’s a bike, back wheel slowly spinning. A boy lies curled on his side as if asleep. But who’d sleep outside on a steel-cold autumn night in Canberra? Jade shivers and pulls her thin jacket tighter. She kneels beside the boy, wishing she’d finished that first aid course, and picks up his small hand, it’s like ice. She feels the thin wrist; a gentle pulse flutters against her fingers. Shivering, she lays the boy’s hand back on his chest. She pulls off her jacket and tucks it around the boy’s small body. She’d watched an episode of that British cop show where kids on pushbikes delivered drugs. He doesn’t look a junkie; besides, he’s wearing a bike helmet. A strand of hair drifts across the boy’s forehead. It’s streaked with something dark. There’s a sharp, sour smell — urine? vomit? Jade touches the boy’s cheek with her palm; his breath is warm against her wrist. She rocks back on her heels and looks around, searching for whatever made him fall off his bike. Local hoons sometimes hung wire across footpaths at head height, hoping to knock cyclists off their bikes — or decapitate them. Jade scans the edges of the path; there’s no wire. She doesn’t hear the scrunch of footsteps until they’re almost on top of her. She looks up, heart pumping. A man looms over her, his generous paunch shielding his face. She edges backwards so she can see him. He’s dressed in baggy grey track pants, dirty joggers and a too-tight flannelette shirt that’s missing a few buttons. She guesses mid-forties but he could be older. He’s almost bald with a straggly beard covering the lower half of his pockmarked face. Not the sort of face she’d like to get close to. As if reading her mind the man leans closer, beer fumes fanning her face. Breathing heavily the man stoops to stare at the boy for some time before giving his opinion: “Looks like he fell off his bike.” “You reckon?” she asks, as she flicks back her hair. She stands up, brushing dead leaves and gravel off her jeans. She wants to go home, pack a few things. Be gone before Alex gets back. She pictures them coiled together on the bed — their bed. “What y'gonna do?” the man asks. Jade tosses her head, long hair swinging.
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“Dunno,” she says, looking at the man, “D'ya have a mobile?” The man laughs, displaying a set of yellowing teeth with generous fillings. He’s missing a front tooth. “Not on me,” he says, looking around. “It’s quiet round here. Lucky you came along,” he nods towards the boy, “could’ve been here all night.” “Well, you would’ve found him.” The man stares at her. “I mean, you’re here now …” She stops; the conversation’s going nowhere. Besides, even though it’s barely six o’clock it’s already dark. The path runs behind a row of houses several metres away. No place for a woman on her own, or one with only a sick kid for company. “Can you do something?” Jade asks, pointing towards the road, “flag down a car — see if they’ve got a phone?” The man glances at the road, screwing up his eyes as if shielding them from the sun. A couple of cars zip past. The man nods and scratches his beard, a rasping sound that sets Jade’s nerves jangling. He straightens up, flicks a quick glance at the boy and clears his throat. “Nah, give him a coupla minutes, he’ll be all right.” He looks Jade up and down while he says this, making Jade’s skin crawl. She tries not to show it. As he turns away, Jade shoots out a hand and grabs his arm. “Don’t go.” She doesn’t want to be on her own. What if he dies? The stranger licks his lips and smiles, almost a leer. “Told you. He’ll be right. No point us both freezing our arses off,” he says, sneaking a look at Jade’s trim backside. Then he turns and sets off along the path. “Go on then,” Jade yells, “you go. I’ll get someone else to help me.” The man flaps a hand at her behind his back. Jade’s on her own. She stares at the retreating figure; half wishing Alex was here.
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Chapter 3 Lady’s scratching at the laundry door. I let her in and rub her ears. She rolls onto her back, belly exposed, legs pedalling. I give her a quick scratch, wondering, as I often do, what’s so wonderful about a belly rub. Must be the doggy equivalent of a neck rub or a foot massage. I love a good massage. Joel was a master at the art of massage. It was almost worth putting up with him just for one of his massages. I’d given up on men — again — when I met him. Built like a wrestler with thick blonde hair and a voice like an ABC newsreader he had all the girls at the local gym salivating. I punished my body three lunchtimes a week — I’ve never been so fit — just for a glimpse of his pecs, glistening with sweat. I wasn’t the only one. There were plenty of other women, licking their lips, imagining running their tongues over that pumped up torso. I don’t know why he chose me. He moved in three months after we met and life was perfect. Not only was he gorgeous, funny, and smart, he got on so well with Sam. Then it all changed. Subtle changes, hardly anything, but they built up to a different picture. First there were positive changes. He became even more conscious of his appearance. He bought an electric toothbrush, mouth freshener, dental floss, and a new brand of deodorant. He booked a long overdue appointment with the dentist and got his hair cut without being nagged. Then came the new suit, expensive shirts and silk ties. I teased him because he took longer to get ready than I did. He didn’t laugh, though.
I shrug off my work clothes and put on a pair of track pants and a baggy T-shirt with a smiling Garfield on the front. I’m not going anywhere. I slouch back to the kitchen and start putting the shopping away. It’s usually Sam’s job. He likes to know where everything is. So he can grab something whenever he feels hungry, and for a healthy teenage boy that’s roughly every 90 seconds. I just shove everything in, wherever there’s an empty place. What’ll I do when he grows up and leaves home? I finish stuffing everything in and force the door shut. It stays shut. I take a deep breath and peek in Sam’s room. Lady’s curled up on his bed. She sees me and yawns, lurching to her feet, huffing and puffing like an old man. “Come on, old thing, you know you’re not allowed on the bed.” Lady slides to the floor, shaking her head, ears flapping, as if trying to clear her thoughts. I scratch her head with one hand and straighten the doona with the other. Lady
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yawns again and settles herself on the floor, head resting on her front paws. She must be exhausted by all that exercise. Sam’s room is tidy for a thirteen year olds; a few clothes on the floor next to the linen hamper with various plastic figures scattered around. His new joggers stand side-by-side on the floor near the wardrobe. He’s not as fussy about finding something to wear as he is about finding something to eat. I’ve given up trying to get him to put his clothes where they ought to go — clean ones in the wardrobe, dirty ones in the clothes hamper. But, as Sam says, what do you do with the in-between-clothes? Seems the floor is the only place for them. I return to the kitchen. The microwave clock shows 6.57. Where is he? I can feel a familiar tightening behind my navel. I switch on the radio, holding my breath as the newsreader runs through the headlines. No earthquakes or flash floods in Canberra, no alien invasion, nothing to suggest anything has happened to Sam. Nothing to worry about. So where is he? I wipe down my already clean bench tops and cupboard doors, check inside the cutlery drawer to see if it needs tidying — it doesn’t. It’s no good; I pick up the phone. “Hi, Brett — is Sam there? … Sure?” I hang up and dial again. “Jan? Hi, it’s Sam’s mother. Sorry to bother you” — I pull a face, remembering Josh telling me his mother hates it when people ring at dinner time — “is Sam there? … No, Brett said he left ages ago, thought he might’ve stopped at your place on the way … yes, I’m sure he’s all right, could have a puncture, not easy to fix in the dark.” I force a laugh. “Yes, I’ll let you know. Bye.” I open the front door, straining my eyes as I peer into the distance, willing Sam to appear at the end of the drive. It’s raining with a persistence that suggests there’s more to come. I stand there shivering. Where is he? I slam the door and lean against it, heart pounding; I feel nauseous. A cup of tea, that’s what I need, tea. I pour boiling water into my favourite mug; the one Sam bought for mothers’ day. I jiggle the tea bag, concentrating on the way the liquid turns a deeper shade of brown with each jiggle. I inhale deeply, savouring the sharp scent of bergamot, and drop the dripping bag into the bin. The phone rings.
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Chapter 4 Shivering, Jade kneels beside the boy, holding his hand; it’s warmer. She covers him up again and runs to the road, waving at passing cars. “Bastards,” she shouts as they roar past. A lifetime later one slows down. She runs towards it then leaps back as it speeds off. “Fuck you,” she screams as the driver flips her the finger. Tears sting her eyes as she runs back to check on the boy; he hasn’t moved. Cursing loudly, she dashes back into the road. Finally a car pulls up. She runs over to it. The driver, a young man, clean-shaven, neat hair, leans across and opens the passenger door. “You okay?” “Yes, yes, I’m fine. There’s been an accident … over there,” Jade turns and points, “a young kid … fell off his bike.” The driver peers into the darkness, Jade moves closer so he can see her. “Can you help? … Please.” The man inspects her from head to toe and back again. Jade stands still until he looks her in the eyes. Whatever he saw must reassure him because he closes the passenger door and drives onto the nature strip. He climbs out of his car. Jade takes in his tall, slim figure. He’s well dressed and carries a hint of expensive aftershave. He’s older than she’d guessed, possibly mid-thirties. Still, she thinks, nothing wrong with older men, well, some older men. The man holds a small torch. Must’ve been a Boy Scout, Jade thinks, as he kneels in the dirt beside the boy, torch beam fanning across the boy’s pale face. He picks up the boy’s hand and holds it briefly before tucking it under Jade’s jacket. “Looks like he hit his head when he fell.” The man flicks his torch. “See?” Jade looks at a small pool of dark liquid puddling under the boy’s head. Poor kid. The man gets to his feet, pulls out his mobile phone and flips it open. He taps out the emergency number and hands the phone to Jade. She holds it to her ear. As she waits to be connected she notices the man walking away. She runs after him. “Where’re you going?” “I’ve a rug in the car.” Jade nods, relieved. The phone is answered on the third ring. Tears stream down her face as she struggles to speak. She swallows, takes a deep breath, and pours out her story to the operator.
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She hovers at the side of the road waiting for the ambulance. The wind has dropped but it’s started to rain, fine misty rain that soon turns heavy. She stamps her feet and wraps her arms across her chest, tucking her hands under her armpits. She hears a promising roar but it’s only a hotted up Pulsar, stereo thudding a deep bass. The driver slows down when he draws near. He checks her out before speeding off, tyres squealing. Another car, a cherry-red Ute, showroom clean, slows down long enough to give Jade a loud blast of doof doof music. Jade gives the driver the finger; she can afford to be rude. Years drag by. Jade turns to look at the man kneeling beside the boy. He said his name was Adam. Nice name, she thinks, not too trendy or old fashioned. He smiled when she’d told him her name, a heart-stopping smile. Stop it, she scolds herself, he’s probably married with ten kids although at this distance he doesn’t look old enough to have ten kids. He could still be married though. He’s kind too; he’d whipped off his jacket and wrapped it around the boy’s legs and put the picnic rug on top. Jade spots the ambulance crawling cautiously along the kerb. She dashes into the road, waving her arms. The vehicle slows to a stop. Jade points behind her and the driver follows her directions, bouncing over the nature strip before coming to a halt. Jade runs over to the ambulance, heart racing, while two ambos climb out of the cab. She hops from one foot to another, explaining how she found the boy, that no one has touched him, except to cover him up. While they listen the two men snap on rubber gloves. The older man nods and the younger one picks up his tool kit and a serious torch. Adam moves aside to let them through but he keeps his torch shining on the boy’s face while the older man examines the boy. The beam shows scratches on the boy’s hands and face. Blood trickles slowly down one cheek. The man talks to the boy and then stabs a pen in the boy’s chest. Then he does something even stranger to the kid’s fingernails. He shouts “GCS 5” and his partner writes it down. Jade moves closer to Adam. The older man gives the boy an injection then slips a plastic collar around the boy’s neck. The two men get up and move to one side. Jade strains to listen but she can’t hear what they say. The older man returns to the boy while the younger one goes back to the ambulance for a stretcher. The two men strap the boy on the stretcher and manoeuvre it into the ambulance. The younger man climbs out, shutting the door behind him. He turns to Jade and Adam, his eyes flicking between them. “We’re off then,” he says, and turns towards the cab. Jade calls after him: “Where’re you taking him?”
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“Canberra Hospital.” The young man starts to climb into the cab then turns to Adam. “Can you take care of his bike?” “No problem,” Adam says, “it’ll fit in the boot.” “Cheers.” The driver climbs into the cab and steers it onto the road, lights flashing, and siren blaring. The ambulance picks up speed and is soon gone, leaving behind the dark silence. Adam picks up the bike and the makeshift blankets and heads for his car. Jade trails behind. She’s shivering violently, a combination of cold and shock. “This yours?” Adam holds out Jade’s jacket. She slips it on gratefully. Heaven. She holds the bike while Adam spreads the car rug on the floor of the boot and lays the bike on top. It’s only then that Jade notices his car, a Mercedes Cabriolet, charcoal grey with pale grey leather seats. Nice, she thinks, very nice. “Want a lift?” Adam asks, slamming the boot. “That’d be awesome,” Jade says, lowering her head so she can peer at him through her lashes, what her friends call her “Princess Di look”. “If it’s not too much trouble,” she adds, remembering her manners. “Not at all,” Adam replies, opening the passenger door. “Hop in,” he says as he walks round to the driver’s side. Jade takes a step towards the car then hesitates. Adam leans against the driver’s door, his eyes on Jade’s. “It’s okay,” he says, with a toe-tingling smile, “I’m not an axe murderer.” Jade laughs and climbs in, slamming the door. As she buckles up she asks: “How do you know I’m not?”
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Chapter 5 I’m usually a cautious driver but tonight I ignore a couple of stop signs and run a red light. I can see the camera flash as I speed past and know I’ll cop a fine. I don’t care. I shoot through the hospital entrance and park in the nearest space, ignoring the Disabled sign. I jump out, slam the door and race for the entrance, gripping my handbag like a talisman. The woman who rang said Sam was at Canberra Hospital. Said it’s normal procedure to send head injuries there because it has a trauma centre. Head Injury? Trauma centre? What’s she talking about? The words have no meaning. I struggled to translate them into a language I can understand. The woman repeats her message, slower and louder. As if it makes a difference. I understand what she’s saying; it just doesn’t make sense. I didn’t have time to ask, though, because she put the phone down. I burst through the door. I’m now prepared. I know exactly what to expect. I can see it, smell it, taste it. Sam’ll be lying flat on his back in a grim room, his face deathly pale, eyes closed, tubes going everywhere, heart monitor blipping at the side of the bed. His head’s bandaged … or perhaps they’ll be getting him ready for surgery. No, they have to wait for parental consent. Anyway, I’ll slide silently alongside his bed and kiss him gently on his cheek. Then I’ll sit on a hard plastic chair and wait, the picture of patience. The waiting room’s full. I push past a couple with a tiny baby asleep on its mother’s shoulder, and a burly young man with a blood soaked wad of tissues pressed against his cheek. As I walk to the reception desk I notice a policeman talking to a pair of paramedics and a young couple. The woman’s pale and teary and the man has his arm around her. I wonder what’s brought them here. I wait while the receptionist takes down details from an elderly man who can barely stand. I scowl at the woman, willing her to look at me. Finally it’s my turn. To her credit, the receptionist pages the doctor as soon as I tell her why I’m here. Seconds later two interns push their way through a swing door. They’re laughing but their smiles fade when they see me. My insides melt when they move towards me but they carry on past and I breathe again. Moments later a weary-eyed young man in a white coat comes shuffling down the corridor. He looks about fourteen despite the dark stubble on his chin. I follow him into a small room and he shuts the door. A bad sign. The doctor stifles a yawn and looks sheepish. He straightens his shoulders. I sense he’s forcing himself to stay focused on what he has to say, or perhaps he’s trying to stay awake. “Sit down,” the doctor says, nodding towards a chair in case I’ve never seen one before.
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“I prefer to stand.” It’s easier to make a run for it. The doctor waits but I don’t move. He coughs. That doesn’t work either. “Please … sit down.” He gives me such a pleading look I feel it would be rude to refuse him. I perch on the edge of the chair. Every nerve, every pore in my body is poised for action, every instinct telling me to move. All I want to do is to see Sam, see what’s wrong, make it better. The doctor shuffles some pages on a clipboard, the rustling sound’s reassuring. He clears his throat and raises his head, eyes fixed on mine. “There are some abrasions and contusions on his hands and arms but the major injury is to his head.” I must’ve gone pale because he stops talking and puts out a hand. “No, that’s not a problem, I mean, there’s a deep cut on the side of his head. We’ve stitched it up. He’d probably been out for about half an hour but he was conscious when he came in.” He looks at his hands and starts steepling his fingers; I want to hit him. “We took some x-rays.” As if to confirm this he jumps up and produces a sheaf of films. He switches on a light box and hangs up some X-rays. It feels creepy looking inside my son’s head. There were the eye sockets, jawbones, and teeth. It reminds me of the plastic skull we’d used for Year 12 Hamlet. Alas, poor Yorrick. “Has he had any illnesses or accidents?” “The usual ones: measles, mumps, chicken pox.” I search my mental filing cabinet. “He had a bad cold a few weeks ago but he’s not had any serious accidents, except when he broke a front tooth in year five. He’s had it capped.” The doctor made a few notes then went back to the x-rays. He turned to make sure I was paying attention. “There are no fractures … however,” he points to an image, “there’s a mass here.” I lean forward, squinting at the x-ray; he’s right, there is something. He stops pointing but continues staring at the film. “I’d like to keep him in a for few days, run some tests. An MRI, CT scan — we can do them in the morning.” I stare at him, what is he talking about? He turns to face me. I wish he hadn’t, I can’t bear to see his anxious eyes waiting for me to say something. I don’t know what to say. “Is it …?” “We won’t know until we do the tests,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s probably benign but ...”
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I don’t hear what he says after that “but”. Benign? The word makes me think of a kindly-faced old man with a potbelly, ruddy cheeks and a permanent smile. A perennial Santa Claus. But wait … he said probably benign which means it might be … the opposite. Hold it, hold it, that’s not in my script. In my version Sam has mild concussion and a few cuts and bruises. Nothing serious. A bit of excitement, that’s all. It must’ve been exciting for him, being stretchered into an ambulance, hurtling through the night, sirens screaming, then getting tucked up in a neat little bed with a neat little nurse to wait on him. The doctor resumes his seat behind the desk and continues steepling his fingers. The glare from his desk lamp catches the tip of his long, thin nose. I tell myself that if I focus on this glowing spot everything will be all right. “Mrs MacAllister?” I blink, my eyes are heavy as if I’ve woken from a deep sleep. Perhaps I am asleep and this is a nightmare. I’m really at home, safe under the doona. “Mrs MacAllister? Are you all right?” I nod. I feel numb. There’s so much I want to say, so many questions I want to ask, but I’m afraid what the answers might be. As Mum often says: “Least said, soonest mended.” Mum. My stomach plummets. What am I going to tell her? “Would you like to see him?” Would I? I think I thank him, I’m not sure. He leads the way down the corridor. I trot behind, wishing he’d move faster. At last we arrive at Sam’s room. The doctor opens the door and steps aside to let me in. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he says as he sweeps off along the corridor. The reality is pretty much how I’d imagined it. Sam’s lying on a high bed, a neat white bandage around his forehead and an assortment of tubes dangling from his skinny body. He’s hooked up to a machine that blips methodically. And there’s that distinctive smell of cheap disinfectant and something else, something disturbing, as if disease and decay has its own special scent. The room’s not what I’d imagined, though; it’s painted in bright colours with cheerful curtains and a huge purple Tellytubby suspended over the bed. Sam’ll love that. A young nurse, skin the colour of café au lait and a smile that makes me feel safe, is sitting on Sam’s bed. She jumps up when I walk in, ducking her head like a naughty schoolgirl. Sam sees me and waves. I notice a plastic clip on one finger and a cannula taped to the back of his hand, a clear plastic tube snaking to a saline drip. Another tube, split at one end, is clipped under his nostrils, feeding him oxygen. He has a few scratches on his face and dusky
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shadows under his eyes but otherwise he looks fine. Normal. I take a deep breath, put on my happiest face, and walk towards his bed. The nurse smiles again. “Hi, I’m Hannah, I’m the poor bunny who’s got to look after this young man.” She rolls her eyes in mock resignation. Sam and I exchange a smile. I feel my shoulders start to relax. “Well, young man,” Hanna says, “your mum’s come to sort you out.” She has a faint accent — Jamaica? Trinidad? She smoothes the bed covers while I sidle round to the single chair at the far side of the bed. “I’d better go finish my rounds. I’ve some really sick people to look after,” Hannah says, heading for the door. Catching my eye she adds quietly: “There’s a bell at the side of the bed, give me a buzz if you need anything.” I didn’t realise I’d been holding my breath until I feel my lungs bursting for air. I straighten my shoulders and look Sam in the eyes. “Well, Sam, what’s going on? Not getting enough attention at home?”
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Chapter 6 Mum picks up the phone on the fourth ring, before it goes to the answering machine. She could set it to ring six, or eight, or twelve times, before the recording device clicks in but she loves a challenge. Besides, the flat’s small and unless she’s in the shower she usually manages to beat the machine. “Mum? It’s me, Maggie.” “I guessed that,” Julia replies, sounding cheerful, “no one else calls me ‘Mum’.” “Mum,” I try again, “It’s …” “Maggie? What is it? What’s wrong?” “It’s Sam … he’s in hospital”. There’s silence at the other end. I start to panic. Perhaps she’s fainted. Or had a heart attack. Then she clears her throat. “I’m on my way.”
Mum sends me a text message when she reaches Canberra. I’m surprised she’s remembered I’d have my mobile on silent at the hospital, and even more surprised that she knows how to send text messages. Sam’s drifting in and out of sleep so I tell her I’ll meet her at home. I don’t want her to come to the hospital. Not yet. I’m home minutes before Mum arrives. She scurries in, dropping her jacket and packages. “How is he?” I drop onto the couch, folding myself into the smallest possible space, arms folded over my knees, hugging myself tight. “He’s had an MRI and a scan. He’s booked in for a biopsy in a few days week. It’ll mean a general so he’ll have to stay in another day or so after that. I’m going to stay with him, at the hospital.” I can’t believe I’m talking like this about my son, as if he was a stranger. Mum pats my shoulder, her hands trembling. “What do they think it is?” “They’re not sure. It might be nothing serious but it could be …” I take a deep breath, “it could be an ependymoma but they’re rare. If it is …” Mum stops patting. “And if it is an epywhatsit?” “It’s not good,” I say, “they can operate, cut out most of it, take the pressure off his brain. Then Sam’ll probably need radiation or chemotherapy or both. To shrink the rest of tumour … slow it down.” I take a deep breath and carry on: “They can’t cure it.” My eyes fill up. “The doctor said there’s no way we could’ve known, no warning signs.” Mum and I stare at each other. I see my pain reflected in her eyes.
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Chapter 7 I open my eyes and another shaft of light hits me in the face. I close them again. What the fuck's going on? Wait, I remember. The last few days — how long has it been? — since I came into hospital have been seriously weird. Mum and Gran have been putting on their brave faces but they don’t fool me. I can’t stand it when Mum looks at me with those puppy-dog eyes. I said she looks like Lady, our beagle. She laughed and said some owners grow to look like their pets. I said it’s a good job we have a dog and not a goldfish or a tortoise. That made her laugh then she went all serious again. Says she’s worried about the biopsy. I said it’s OK, Hannah told me about it. Said they’ll have to shave off some of my hair and drill a tiny hole in my skull. Nothing to worry about!!!! They’ll cut out a piece of the tumour, so they can tell what kind it is.
They’d better not cut out any of my brain by mistake cos I don’t have much to start with.
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Chapter 8 They say the darkest hour is before dawn. I don’t know who they are but they’re spot on. A friend who works at the Registry of Births, Deaths and Marriages told me most babies are born between midnight and dawn. Maybe some primitive survival instinct, so you’ve got the whole day ahead of you. She spoiled my romantic notion by saying that’s also when most people die. Things are certainly dark tonight but Sam and I aren’t wishing it gone. I’m dreading the new day. That’s when Sam’s scheduled for his biopsy. We’ve whiled away most of the night dozing and playing Scrabble and Uno. Sam tried to teach me how to play Euchre — wonder who taught him? — but I can’t get the hang of it. Finally he falls asleep. I watch him, lips pouting when he breathes out, whistling softly like a leaky airbed. I stroke his cheek, as smooth and downy as a baby’s. His eyes flicker under closed lids. I wonder what stuff his dreams are made of. I hope they’re happy ones.
Sam’s still asleep when Hannah breezes in, wheeling a trolley. He wakes to find her holding his hand, her head bent, as she takes his pulse. She smiles, eyes sparkling, and he smiles back. Hannah completes her routine check then nods towards the trolley. “Good morning, sir. Glad to see you’re awake. Time to make your big decision.” “I’ve already told you.” “Just checking,” she says, turning to me. “It’s his hair,” she explains, “says he wants it all shaved off.” “Well,” I said, in my serious voice. “If that’s what sir wants, on sir’s head be it.” Hannah and I laugh but Sam looks at us blankly. “That was supposed to be a joke, Sam,” Hannah said. “So why wasn’t it?” Sam fires back. Hannah responds by draping a sheet over his shoulders and setting to work with the trimmer. I watch, hands clasped so tightly my fingers go numb, as clumps of Sam’s curls fall on the sheet. When she’s got rid of most of his hair she runs an electric razor over his head. Then she swaps the blade and gives him a closer shave. Within minutes Sam’s as bald as a newborn baby — or an old man — his newly exposed scalp gleaming pinkly in the early morning sun. Hannah holds up a mirror so he can see his new look. He takes the mirror from her hands, tilting it this way and that as he admires his reflection. Satisfied, he hands it back. “Cool,” he says, with a grin, “perhaps I should get it tattooed. What do you think, Mum?”
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“About the tat?” “No, my new look.” I run my hands over his head, the skin soft and slippery, bones sliding smoothly under my fingers. I kiss the top of his head and sit back. “You look cute. Like Dopey in Snow White.” Sam grimaces. “Not the look I was after.” Hannah grins at him as she gathers up her equipment. She clatters away but returns moments later. “We’ve got a few minutes before I have to get you ready.” Hannah’s talking to Sam but her eyes are on mine: “Is there anything you want to ask?” My mind’s buzzing with questions. I don’t know where to start. “Will it hurt?” We both turn towards Sam. He sees my anxious face and turns to face Hannah. “After. When I come round. Will it hurt?” Hannah takes his hand and looks him in the eyes. “Yes, my love, it will hurt. You’ll be like a bear with a sore head,” she says with a gentle smile, “but we’ll give you lots of painkillers so it shouldn’t hurt too much.” Sam nods and Hannah pats his hand. “Maybe,” I pause, unsure how to say what I’m thinking, “maybe you could imagine something … or someone, to help you beat this … this … thing. Like a guardian angel or a mythical creature … whatever.” Hannah beams at us. “That’s a good idea. I used to have terrible nightmares when I was a kid,” she says, “most nights I was too scared to go to bed so my mum told me to imagine a big friendly dragon, bigger and more powerful than the monsters I dreamt about.” “Did it work?” asks Sam. “Sure did,” Hannah says with a grin, “only I didn’t need no dragon to get rid of my nightmares. I just thought about my grandad; he’d scare the pants off any monster.” Sam laughs. “What about you, Sam?” she asks, “can you think of someone big and brave to look after you?” I watch his face, his brow furrowed as he concentrates. I wonder who he’ll pick? Superman, perhaps, or some other superhero. Sam continues to look thoughtful for a minute then he grins. “I know,” he says, “Stan.” “Stan?”
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“Yeah, you know, Stan Marsh.” Sam looks from Hannah to me to see if we’re teasing him, pretending not to know who Stan is. “On South Park. He’s one smart dude, the only one who knows what’s going on. Stan wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me.” I’ve watched the show a few times. It seems a bit over the top sometimes, and the adult themes are occasionally a little too adult. Sam and his friends love it. They often talk about the characters and what’s happening on the show. It’s rude, crude and politically incorrect, standard viewing for thirteen-year-olds. Sam’s right, Stan is the most normal character on the show. At least he didn’t pick Kenny. He’s the one who always winds up dead.
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Chapter 9 I feel such a fraud. There’s nothing wrong with me so why am I in the doctor’s waiting room? I flick through a magazine with the cover missing. It’s so old I’m surprised there’s nothing about Charles and Diana’s marital problems. I’ve been seeing Dr Lovell for years, since I was expecting Sam. I can remember the first time I went to see her. “Call me, Jenny,” she’d said. “OK, Jenny, I will.” She’d looked pleased. “A lot of my older patients insist on calling me “doctor”, she said, so I make a point of using their surnames. They seem to like that formality.” She shrugged, “It’s okay but I think using first names cuts down on the fear factor, especially for children.” That was certainly the way it was for Sam. He always seemed pleased to see her, even when I took him for his vaccinations.
I don’t have to wait long. Today’s visit is going to be difficult because, as I said, there’s nothing wrong with me. Jenny knows why I’ve come; Sam’s file is on her desk. “Come in, Maggie, sit down.” She swivels her chair so she’s facing me, rolling it closer until our knees are almost touching. Jenny’s surgery isn’t small, it’s just stuffed with overlarge furniture. Like her battered desk and examination couch that takes up almost a third of the available space. The result isn’t claustrophobic, just cosy. “How are you?” How am I? The simple answer is I don’t know. People keep asking me that question: How are you, Maggie? How are you? How are you? What do they want me to say? I’m fine, couldn’t be better, oh, apart from the fact that my only child is terminally ill. Perhaps I should just say I’m as well as could be expected. Or I’m having a bad day. How would I know? It’s so long since I had a good day. How am I? You really want to know? Well, I’m bloody tired, bone crushingly tired, and too hyper to sleep. I’m amazed how long the body can function on a diet of adrenaline. I keep myself nice, though. I shower, wash my hair, clean my teeth. I remember to change my clothes, grabbing whatever’s nearest, not caring if this goes with that or if it makes my bum look big, although recently I’ve noticed my clothes are getting roomier. Having a sick kid is a great appetite suppressant. I make an effort for Sam’s sake and on days like today. I rub in foundation to hide the shadows under my eyes, dab on blusher and scrunch up my hair, hoping my grey roots don’t show, paste on a smile, and I’m ready to face the world. How am I?
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I look at Jenny’s long, narrow face, with cheekbones you could hang towels on. Her face is dominated by a pair of amazing eyes, treacle brown, tilting ever so slightly upwards at their outer edge. She’s ageing well too, must be in her late forties, her hair has faded but there’s hardly any grey. “I don’t know how I am. Some days I can hardly drag myself out of bed and I flop around until it’s time to crawl back. Other days I rush around like my bum’s on fire; I can’t sit still.” I take another glance at Jenny. She smiles encouragingly. “I’m angry too. Really, really angry. Why did this happen to me, to my child? Why not someone else’s child? Then I feel guilty for thinking that.” I pause, trying to control my wandering thoughts. “I can’t concentrate on anything and I’m useless at work.” Jenny rolls her chair closer, our knees touching. She leans closer, her hand covering mine, she squeezes it gently then leans back in her chair. “Do you need some time off?” “No, thanks, I couldn’t bear to stay at home. It’s horrible without Sam. Mum comes down when she can, and at weekends, which is good, well, you know what I mean … said she’ll take time off … later …” Jenny nods then says brusquely. “We’re a long way from that.” She rubs her hands together and like magic she transforms herself back into the calm, detached professional. “Is there anything I can do? Anything you want to ask me? Anything?” It’s like turning on a tap. I let it all pour out.
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Chapter 10 Dr Field doesn’t look like a man with a sense of humour. I sit down, flicking him a quick look. He avoids my eyes. No smile, no “how are you”. Nothing. I shiver although the room is warm. I peer at this man who has the power to change Sam’s life — and mine. He looks serious, deadly serious. He’s dressed in an immaculate charcoal grey suit, pale grey shirt and lilac silk tie with self-coloured stripes. He’s tall and lean with a nose so sharp he could use it as a scalpel. His dark brown hair is thick and neatly trimmed and his tanned complexion speaks of outdoor pursuits. A rower, perhaps. I watch his biceps tense as he leans back in his chair, shirt tight over his abs. If not, he definitely spends time on a rowing machine. Without saying a word, he walks round to the front of his desk and perches on the edge, one foot planted firmly on the plush pile, the other swinging, the toe of his polished shoes only inches from my knees. I watch hypnotically as the shoe swings backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, unable to break the spell. The shoe stops swinging. I look up; Dr Field is staring at me. I lower my eyes. He shifts his weight and starts the foot-swinging thing again. It doesn’t last; we can’t put it off any longer. “Mrs MacAllister, I’m sorry … there’s no easy way to say this …I’m afraid I have some bad news.” My heart stops. It actually stops. There’s nothing, no breath, no pulse. Nothing. I grip my hands, forcing myself not to leap out of the chair. I want to scream but I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop. Dr Field clears his throat, an ominous sound. Stop. Stop it right there. I’m not listening. He keeps talking. “I’m sorry,” he says, “the biopsy confirmed what we thought. Sam’s tumour is malignant. What’s known as a malignant ependymoma.” There’s a sharp tug deep inside, a uterine contraction worse than the pain of labour. For a few seconds I can’t speak. Then I find my voice. “What happens now?” Dr Field looks embarrassed. I almost feel sorry for him. “I’ll have to operate, reduce the mass. Then a course of chemo and radiotherapy to shrink it. We’ll do everything we can, but …” I switch off as he babbles away in medicalese, nodding my head when he pulls out a pad and starts scribbling, drawing a diagram of what I assume is a human brain. I can’t bear to look.
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“This type of cancer mainly affects young people. Brain tumours kill more children than leukaemia.” I lower my head, unable to speak. “How …” My mouth is dry. I swallow and try again, “How long …?” He smiles sadly, “I can only give you a rough idea … There are new treatments …” he stops, perhaps he’s noticed the angry expression on my face, “If I had to give a figure, I’d say around six months, possibly longer.” Tears run down my cheeks and plop on my lap. I ignore them. “I can’t believe this is happening,” I say, meeting his eyes, “it must be a mistake.” He holds my look and shakes his head. I want to say something but the words have frozen in my throat. I try to swallow but my tongue has glued itself to the roof of my mouth. I feel light-headed, as if I’m going to faint but there’s no relief. I remain conscious, aware of the awfulness of what’s going on. Bile fills my throat. I swallow and manage to speak: “Will he … will he be in pain?” Dr Field glances to one side for moment and then looks me in the eyes. “In some ways this is the kindest kind of cancer. He may get more and more confused … towards the end. He probably won’t know what’s happening … I’m so sorry.” I believe him, he is sorry. What a god-awful job it must be watching children, some of them babies, having to go through this. And telling their parents. Heartbreaking. I pull my attention back to the doctor; he seems more animated. “We mustn’t give up hope. The operation will relieve some symptoms and give other treatments a better chance to work.” He stands up. I take the hint and get up too. Turning back to his desk he picks up a pile of brochures and hands them to me. “Call me. Anytime. You’ve got my number?” I nod. “And there’s a support group … other parents in the same boat; you might like to contact them.” Support group? I stare at him. Why would I want to join a support group? I stuff the brochures in my bag and charge down the corridor. People stare at me. I don’t give a damn. I screech to a halt outside Sam’s room. I can taste salt at the back of my throat. I will myself not to cry. I can’t do it. I can’t face him. I slink off to the parents’ room for a cup of tea and a lie down.
Sam’s eyes are closed. He looks like he’s asleep. He isn’t. His face lights up when he hears me flop down on the visitor’s chair, his eyes sparkling, the dark circles underneath making his
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pale cheeks look paler. I take a deep breath and lean across the bed to kiss him. My smile slips for a moment but it’s back in place by the time I straighten up. “How do you feel, sweetie? Are they looking after you? Getting enough to eat?” I’m babbling but I can’t stop. Sam grins. “You’re such a mother. But you don’t have to worry, I’m fine. Remember? I’ve got Stan looking after me.” I lower my eyes, conscious of the brochures in my bag. “Are you okay?” Sam asks, “you look … weird.” “What a perceptive boy you are,” I say, as I try to think of a convincing lie. “I’m fine … a bit tired, and your gran’s driving me mental.” I laugh to take the edge off what I’ve said but Sam looks thoughtful. Now I feel guilty. He’d witnessed the occasional standoff between me and my mother. Nothing serious, just two strong-minded women voicing their opinions. We each give as good as we get but it must be hard for Sam. My face is burning. “Well, you know what mothers are like.” Sam smiles, eyeing my new blouse. It was on special at DJs and I’d bought it to cheer myself up. Sam’s scrutiny makes me think it wasn’t such a good idea. “Like your shirt.” “Thanks. “Red suits you, matches your eyes.” I feel guiltier than ever. I’m supposed to be cheering Sam up; today it’s the other way round. Sam’s smile slips and his eyelids flutter and close. He’s soon asleep. I perch on the visitor’s chair and try to control my wandering thoughts. Like Sam I let my eyes close.
I wake to see Sam stirring. He yawns then he sees me and grins. I help him to sit up, plumping his pillows, settling him into a comfortable position. I can’t believe how frail he looks, as if all his strength has gone out of him. This is awful. I can’t bear it. I kiss his cheek and pick up my bag. “Gotta run, kid, be back first thing in the morning. Will you miss me?” He nods. “Don’t be mean to the nurses.” “Ah, Mum, if I can’t be mean to them who can I be mean to?” “Not me,” I said, “you’ll have to take it out on Stan.” Sam picks up his latest Stan figure and holds it out. “No way,” he says, “he’s the only one who knows what’s going on.”
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I hold out my hand for the doll; this one’s soft and cuddly. I look at the doll’s wide, frightened eyes. It’s hard to believe he’s the smart one. I hope he’s doing his best to help Sam.
I pull into the driveway, fling open the door of my trusted Fiesta and race up the drive, door key at the ready. I jab it in the lock and yank open the door, no time to waste ringing the bell and waiting for Mum to let me in. I dash inside and fling off my coat, fishing round in my bag for the dreaded brochures. I grab them and head for my bedroom, Mum trailing behind. I flop onto the bed, fanning out the pamphlets. I pick one at random and flick through it, stomach churning, taking in words no parent should have to read: “What you should know if your child has cancer.” Your child has cancer. What I want to know is why this is happening to my child? To my darling Sam? I force myself to keep reading. I have to know. If Sam and I are going to beat this thing we have to know what we’re dealing with. What’s that expression? Know thine enemy. I read about the operation Sam is due to have in a few days, trying to take in what I’d refused to think about. My insides roll themselves into a big knot as I read what the surgery involves. I swipe angrily at my face as tears flow down. I read that the operation is usually a success — that’s good to know. It can’t be all that successful, though, because Sam will still have cancer. According to the brochure, the best it can do is give the other treatments a chance to work. That’s what Dr Field said. Perhaps the chemo and radiotherapy will destroy the beast. That and Stan.
I can’t take any more. I leave Mum with the brochures and take off with Lady. I drive along Limestone Avenue and park the car at the rear of the War Memorial. We walk to the top of Mount Ainslie, a slow steep climb. The temperature has dropped but I’m warm by the time I reach the top, my nose tingling in the sharp, biting wind, breathing in the clean, fresh air, the noise of traffic a vague hum in the distance. The climb down is quicker but it’s growing dark and I’m worried about twisting my ankle, or crashing through the sticky web of an orb spider making its home in the overhanging branches. I’m stuffed by the time we get down, legs like jelly snakes. I sit on a bench overlooking Campbell Oval; it’s deserted. “Thing is,” I tell Lady, “Sam’s tumour’s malignant.” I’ve looked it up on the net. It’s described as a condition that progresses rapidly to death. Talk about telling it like it is. It then says that not all malignant tumours lead to death. That’s so reassuring. I’ve forgotten most of my schoolgirl French but I remember the word mal means bad, hence the words malady and mal de mere, seasickness.
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“Malignant,” I say softly, “is evil, foul.” Lady stares at me with her toffee-brown eyes, her tail thumping blissfully as I rub her tummy with my foot. She looks interested so I carry on. “Dr Field said Sam’s lucky — that word again, lucky, must buy him a lottery ticket — ’cos he probably won’t need a shunt to drain fluid from his brain into the stomach – why the stomach? – where it gets absorbed.” I move my foot from Lady’s tummy and she taps her nose on my ankle to remind me of my duty. I resume rubbing. “It’s all right for you, old thing,” I tell her, “you don’t know what’s going on.” I pause, remembering something I’ve read about dogs being trained to sniff out cancer. A dog’s sense of smell is about 200 times more sensitive than ours. Perhaps Lady knew Sam had cancer before we did. I look at her; she’s still enjoying her tummy rub. “This chemo business, Lady, is grim. Sam’ll feel like shit and his hair will fall out, well, it would if Hannah hadn’t already shaved it off. His Gumsol bleed and he’ll feel like shit.” There’s more, much more. I can’t bear to think about it. I stand up and Lady climbs stiffly to her feet. A spindly-legged black puppy — an inkblot of a dog — skitters past. It turns and lopes towards Lady, she growls a warning and the younger dog, ears flattened, runs on. I swear Lady has a grin on her face as we walk slowly to the car. She gives a huge sigh when I open the door. Like it’s all too hard. I know how she feels.
When I get home Mum’s lying across my bed surrounded by brochures. Her face is grey, her eyes glazed with shock. I probably don’t look any better. She sits up when she sees me and I flop down beside her. I bury my face against her chest and sob, scalding tears soaking her blouse. I can feel her body shaking, her tears falling on my hair, running down my neck. During the night we crawl fully clothed under the doona. Sometime around dawn we fall asleep.
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Chapter 11 “What are you doing home?” “Hello to you too.” “Sorry. Hello Mum, you’re back early.” “Sam wanted to go to the hospital school so I thought I’d come home.” She waved a hand around the room, “see if there’s anything I can do.” I’ve been looking forward to spending some time on my own. I’m surprised how angry I am that Mum’s spoiled my plan. “Such as?” Mum stops on her way to her room. “I can go out again.” I stretch my arms above my shoulders, trying to release the tension in the back of my neck. “No, it’s all right. I’m just a bit tired.” “You’re tired?” Mum spins round to face me. “We’re all tired. It’s not like I’m down here on holiday.” I hold up my hands. “I know, Mum, and I’m grateful. I really am.” My throat fills up and tears sting my eyes. “Sorry, love, a bit of the Irish temper coming out.” Mum’s grandmother and her young family had emigrated from Ireland early in the last century. I never knew her but Mum often talked about her grandmother, saying she was a sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued pocket dynamo. She was heavy handed with the wooden spoon and always had a bottle of castor oil handy — a sure cure, she claimed, for a recalcitrant child — but she had a soft heart and a soft lap and it was good to have her on your side. She claimed that fifty years in the Australian sun had bleached her copper-red curls a snowy white. When she grew old and frail she said she was banking on the truth of the Irish blessing, saying she planned to be in heaven before the devil knew she was dead.
Mum’s hands are tightly clasped. I gently lever them apart and hold them between mine. “I just want it to be the way it was, Mum, I want Sam to be the way he was.” “I know, love,” she whispers, “and I’m so sorry.” She drops onto the couch, sobbing, deep, heaving sobs that make her shoulders shake. I slide down beside her and wrap her in my arms. Cradling her head on my shoulder, her wet cheek against mine, I let her cry.
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We sit like that for what seems like hours. Mum pulls away first. Her face wet, tears dripping off her chin. She wipes her face with her hands and slides further away, turning so we can see each other. “I don’t know how to say this …” “Say what?” I ask. “I feel so guilty …” “So do I.” “No, let me finish. I’m glad I can help — with you and Sam. I wish I didn’t have to but I’m glad I can.” She pauses and clenches her fingers then releases them. She stares at her hands for a moment before lacing them together. “I never told you how hard it was for me … when Sam was born.” She looks at me, “I loved being here, loved looking after Sam,” she smiles, “he was such a beautiful baby.” I put my hand on her shoulder. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you, Mum.” That’s true, Rhonda wasn’t much help. She visited me a total of three times in the six weeks after Sam was born, bringing takeaway food: Indian one night, Turkish the next, Italian on the third night. Eating meals from around the world, she joked. But none from her kitchen. She also brought a dozen bottles of Shiraz. Generous gifts but I couldn’t eat spicy food and alcohol was off the menu while I was breastfeeding. “It’s not that I minded looking after Sam — or you”, Mum says, “it’s just that I hated leaving your father, leaving him on his own.” She smiles, “You probably didn’t think about it but your father was a bit of a catch. There was always a flock of women hanging around him, usually newly single women, saying how lucky I was to have such a good-looking husband. I saw those women in action, like a flock of twittering, predatory birds, on the hunt for a man, any man, even if that man “belonged” to someone else. As long as they were still breathing any man was fair game. I tried not to mind but it was hard not to be jealous.” I’m shocked. “Dad never even looked at another woman.” Mum laughs, “I don’t know about that. The trouble was he was so kind hearted, always willing to change a washer, or put up a shelf, or give someone a lift. I think sometimes his kindness was misunderstood.” I don’t know what to say, it’s hard to imagine Dad being a chick magnet. But I do know he was a kind man. When great aunt Violet died, just after Sam’s second birthday, she left everything to her favourite nephew. In a frenetic few months Mum and Dad sold Violet’s house in Drummoyne and their own home in Killara and bought a new house in Bronte with wraparound verandas and ocean views. Then they gave me what was left, enough for a
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sizeable deposit on an ex-govie in Watson. For the next few months Dad spent every weekend painting the house inside and out, putting up new curtain tracks, ripping up old carpet, sanding and varnishing floorboards, organising a new kitchen and bathroom, taking me to choose taps and tiles and light fittings — working around the clock to get everything finished before Sam and I moved in. Sam loved his new home, especially the garden with its sand pit and swing set. Mum and I planted shade trees and dug a veggie patch and helped lay pavers under the new pergola. I was in heaven. For the first time I could hang photos and Sam’s artwork on the walls. Our own home.
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Chapter 12 “Are you going to tell him?” Mum asks. “Who else?” Mum pulls a face. I pretend not to notice. “Remember what Sam said about Stan?” Mum doesn’t answer so I carry on. “He said: “He’s the only one who knows what’s going on.” Maybe Stan can tell him because I don’t have any fucking idea what’s going on.” Mum opens her mouth, probably going to tell me off for swearing. Shit, it’s my house and I can fucking swear if I want to. I take a deep breath, counting slowly to ten, I hold out my hand, palm facing outwards, fingers pointed, the universal stop sign. “I know, I know, I’ll wash my mouth out later.” We’re in our usual positions, either side of the table in the family room, gripping our cups of coffee as if they hold the answer to life, the universe and everything. “I wish we didn’t have to tell him … I mean, I wish there was nothing to tell him.” “So do I.” Mum looks up, holding my eyes, “I’d gladly take his place, you know that, don’t you?” I swallow salt at the back of my throat. “I wish it was me, Mum, I wish it was me.” I stare into my cup, the liquid bobbing slightly in my shaking hand. I put it on the table. “When will you tell him?” I shrug my shoulders; I can’t think. “Soon. Today.” Mum sucked air through her teeth, a sound of disapproval. “We can’t ignore it, Mum. Sam’s a bright kid; he’ll soon work it out. Especially when his hair starts to fall out.” “You’re right, he knew something was wrong when Grandpa’s hair fell out.” Mum rubbed her face, a dry rasping sound, stretching the skin around eyes red-rimmed and weary. “Do you want me to be there … when you tell him?” “Yeah …” my voice sounds husky. I clear my throat and start again, “yeah, I think we should both be there.” I get up and start banging things about in the kitchen, opening and closing doors. Mum takes the hint and goes outside. A few minutes later she’s raking leaves off the back lawn.
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It’s going to be another miserable day. Dark clouds threaten rain but they’re just teasing. If it does rain it won’t be more than a few fat drops, wouldn’t fill a teaspoon. I stare at the washing flapping on the clothesline; it’s a comforting sight.
I’m paying the electricity bill over the phone when Mum taps on the window. “It’s raining,” she said, pointing to the washing. “In a minute,” I shout, waving a hand in her direction as I struggle to follow the automated instructions: “Enter the amount you wish to pay, followed by the hash key.” I finish keying in the numbers and wait for the receipt number. I look at the sky, still grey, still no rain. A solitary cloud drifts apathetically across the sky. Mum’s at the outdoor table folding sheets. I wrench open the sliding door and charge outside “What are you doing? “Bringing in the washing before it rains.” I wave my hand in the air. “What rain?” Mum looks skyward and shrugs. She carries on folding the clothes. “Is it dry?” “Nearly.” “I told you to leave it.” Mum stops folding. “Now I’ll have to put them on the clothes rack,” my throat tight, voice rising, “I don’t want to do that.” I can feel the rage building up, fury blacker than the clouds. “Why didn’t you leave the fucking things alone. I don’t want them hanging round the house.” Mum dumps the folded washing in the basket. “I’ll hang them back up.” I head her off. “No you fucking well won’t.” I snatch the basket out of her hands and stomp into the laundry, banging the basket down on top of the washing machine. A handful of pegs skip out and dance across the floor. I stare at them for a few moments before picking them up. My anger has gone; leaving me weak and shaken.
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Chapter 13 Mum didn’t have to tell me what’s wrong, I heard the doctors talking, saw the looks on their faces. I told her not to say anything, said I know it’s going to be bad news, dude.
Later, when Gran had gone, Mum told what’s wrong, said it’s a kind of tumour, an ependymoma. Said it’s a bad one. I asked her how to spell it but she said she couldn’t remember. I said it’s like those Pooh Bear stories you used to read to me. I’m like Pooh now, a bear of very little brain and long words bother me.
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Chapter 14 The phone’s ringing. Instinctively I move towards it, then freeze, the memory of the call from the hospital rushing back, paralysing me. I push the thought aside and pick up the phone, a tiny fragment of my mind registering that even in the most traumatic situations the urge to answer the phone is irresistible. “Hello.” My throat is tight, my voice high. I sound like a chipmunk. “Hello. Mrs MacAllister?” A woman’s voice — the one from the hospital? “Yes?” My voice sounds strong but my legs feel wobbly. “Hi, it’s Jade … I … I found your son …” “Jade.” That’s as far as I can go. There are no rules to cover this situation. No guidelines on what to say to someone who has looked after your sick child — apart from thanking them. “Jade,” I said, “I’m glad you called. I want to thank you for what you did … I wanted to call earlier but I didn’t have your number.” “That’s okay. I’ve just moved. Haven’t got the phone in yet.” She sounds young; younger than I’d imagined. “I’m at work. I was wondering how Sam is.” “He’s fine,” I lie. “Great, fabulous … ummm, can I see him?” “I’m sure he’d love to see you.” I try to sound upbeat, happy. “Visiting time’s fairly flexible — you might want to ring first to see if he’s up to having visitors.” There’s a pause, perhaps she’s hung up. “Hello?” “Sorry, I thought he’d be home by now.” My stomach’s doing cartwheels. She doesn’t know. She thinks Sam’s got nothing worse than a bump on the head. “Jade, are you free for coffee after work? My shout?” Another pause. “Sure,” she says, “Where? What time?” “There’s a café on the ground floor of the hospital, near the reception desk. Six thirty?” “Great. See you then. Oh, how will I recognise you?” “That’s easy. I’m average height, a tad … well … plumpish, with longish, blondish hair. Oh, and I’ll be wearing an anxious expression.” She laughs and we hang up. I’ve no need to ask what she looks like. She sounds young, and pretty and slim but for a brief moment I have a selfish, awful, wish that she’ll be hideous.
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I’m at an empty table in the little café facing the entrance so I can keep an eye out for her. A couple of young women come in, they look like suitable candidates but they head straight for the counter. Jade comes straight to my table, probably because I’m the only woman on her own. “Maggie?” I nod and she sits down, dumping a heavy shoulder bag on the floor. I was right; she is young and pretty with hair the colour of desert sand hanging down her back. It turns out she’s also very likeable which makes it hard to resent her for being … beautiful. “Hi, I’m Jade.” She holds out her hand and we shake hands formally across the table. “Can I get you something?” I push back my chair but she’s already on her feet. “No, no, I’ll go. Can I get you anything?” “No thanks.” She moves swiftly to the counter, threading her slim body easily through the tightly packed tables. She returns minutes later with a numbered sign that she stands on the table. “I’ve ordered a toasted sandwich. Hope you don’t mind. I came straight from work and I’m starving.” I’ve come straight from work too but these days I don’t have much appetite. We sit for a few moments smiling at each other, two strangers brought together by chance. I try to think of something to say but my mind refuses to cooperate. “Thank you for coming, Jade.” Not very original but it’s a start. “And thanks for what you did for Sam. I can’t bear to think of him lying there. On his own. What if you hadn’t come along?” I lean closer, “I am grateful.” Jade grins — it makes her look even younger. “There’s no need to thank me. I’m just glad he’s okay.” She must’ve noticed the look on my face because she stops talking. “What? What’s wrong?” And there, in that crowded café, in the company of strangers, I break down. Jade follows me as I stumble out of the café, leaving behind her toasted sandwich and cappuccino. I wonder if I should offer to pay for it. She led me outside and we find a seat away from the smokers. In the cool of the evening I tell this young woman — this stranger — all about Sam.
When we get back inside I’m surprised to find that I’m hungry. We each have a toasted sandwich before going to visit Sam.
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He’s pleased to see me — and perhaps slightly more pleased to see Jade. His eyes follow her when she moves. I don’t blame him, she is very attractive. I can tell he’s impressed. She’s also very funny. She was telling Sam about moving into her friend’s house, how her friend had drawn a map so she could find the bus stop. “I needed to catch the number 39 so I set off in heaps of time so I wouldn’t miss it. Anyway, this bus pulls up and I get on. I ask the driver if it goes to Civic and he says no, says I need the next one. I say how long will it be and he says about the same length as this one.” It’s good to hear him laugh.
Jade and I sit quietly until Sam falls asleep then I offer her a lift. “Thanks,” she says, “I don’t have a car at the moment. The big ends have gone. Mechanic said it would be cheaper to buy a new car.” I pull a face to show my sympathy; the pair of us united in our ignorance of the mechanical workings of our cars. We’re driving through Civic when I realise I don’t want to go home. “Fancy a drink?” “Yeah. Sure. Great.” I pull into the car park opposite the Green Room. I buy two glasses of champagne and potato wedges — the only hot food left at this time. The wedges are tepid and limp but I shovel them into my mouth while Jade talks. She tells me about her ex, Alex, and his wandering ways. “You won’t believe it, but when Adam dropped me off the night we found Sam, there’s Alex packing my stuff.” “You’re joking.” Jade shakes her head, her long hair swinging from side to side. “Nope. He’d stuffed all my things into garbage bags. Said I’d got ten minutes to pack the rest of my stuff then he’s calling a cab. “That’s awful. What did you do?” She shrugs. “Nothing I could do. I packed the rest of my stuff.” She pauses, concentrating on a sliver of skin at the side of her thumbnail. I shudder and close my eyes; I can’t bear to watch. “Lucky I can crash at a friend’s place.” “How long can you stay?”
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Jade shrugs, “Not long,” she says. “it’s a bit tight. There’s only two bedrooms and they’ve a two year old. I’ve got his bed.” Jade looks shamefaced. I bet it’s a long time since she’s slept in a single bed. “You can stay at my place. There’s a sofa bed in the lounge room.” The words are out before I’ve time to think. “Thanks, Maggie,” she says, patting my hand, “but it’s all taken care of. I’m moving at the weekend. A group house with four other students. It’ll be awesome.” “If it doesn’t work out you’re welcome to stay with me.” I must learn to shut up. “At least I got rid of Alex,” Jade adds, going back to work on her thumbnail. “What’s Adam like?” I ask, guessing she’s dying to tell me. Jade abandons her thumb chewing and grins. “He’s seriously hot. A bit older than me … probably about your age,” she adds, looking me up and down. “He’s got these amazing grey eyes, and judging by his car he must be seriously loaded.” “Sounds perfect.” Sounds too good to be true, I think, hoping for Jade’s sake that he’s not already spoken for. Still, if she’s determined to have him I doubt if any other woman will stand a chance. Jade laughs. “He sure is. He asked if he could come with me next time I visit Sam.” She looks at me, her beautiful eyes anxious, “You don’t mind do you?” I shake my head and she relaxes.
I buy two more glasses of champagne. I sip mine slowly while Jade tells me about uni, says she’s studying at Canberra uni full time and working part time at a call centre. “And don’t ask if that makes me a call girl,” she adds with a mock groan. She also says she’s planning a housewarming party on the following Saturday. “You can come if you like.” I do a quick calculation, remembering she said she was moving in at the weekend. Won’t give her much time to unpack. “Thanks but I’ll be visiting Sam. Besides, you won’t want old folks like me hanging around.” I wait but she doesn’t contradict me.
We finish our drinks and carry on talking. It’s only when the bar staff start wiping down bench tops, stacking chairs and switching off lights that I realise it’s getting late. I drop her off, promising to keep in touch. I drive home feeling not exactly happy but definitely lighter.
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Chapter 15 Some girls are destined to be mothers; I’m one of them. When I was young my only ambition was to have a home of my own and babies, lots of babies. I was still playing with dolls long after my friends were experimenting with make up and sticking up posters of the latest boy band. By the time I got to high school I was dreaming of white lace and bridal bouquets. I couldn’t wait to get married, not just because I hated my name, Margaret Maureen MacAllister — I was named after both grandmothers — but so I could start having babies. My friends thoughtfully told me which surnames to avoid when checking out a prospective spouse. As well as any name beginning with M, I was warned against names like Crapp, Sidebottom, or Trumper. Trouble was, by the time I discovered the surname of the man I would eventually marry it was too late, I was already pregnant. How was I to know that the hunk of a man I’d known only as Tim would turn out to be a Snodgrass? No wonder our marriage was doomed. As if the groom’s surname wasn’t bad enough the wedding day itself was the stuff of nightmares. I’d wanted my wedding to be different, no string quartet playing Rachael’s “Canon”, no butterflies released for a moment of freedom before being snapped up by opportunistic predators. Surely that must be a bad omen? I had to give in to the idea of bubbles – “the kids love them” – and to friends whose little girls were looking forward to seeing them in their party dresses scattering rose petals from beribboned wicker baskets. Kind friends carted a couple of eskies of bubbly to the venue and set up a row of folding tables covered with white cloths and several bowls of heart shaped chocolates. It looked lovely. And me, Mrs Margaret Maureen Snodgrass née MacAllister, looked lovely too in strapless ivory satin, cut low at the top to show off my clavicle and my unusually voluptuous cleavage, and full lower down to hide the baby bump. Tim looked uncomfortable in his rented slate-grey suit; his hair, cut short for the occasion, made him look like a schoolboy dressed up for the class photo. My best friend, Rhonda, looked less lovely; the fluoro-pink bridesmaid’s dress that had seemed more … subdued in the shop had clashed with her red hair. Perhaps there’s some secret rule, Rhonda said, that bridesmaids have to look as unattractive as possible so they don’t outshine the bride. Still, she managed to smile her way through the afternoon, although she complained her dress made her look like a pink meringue, her shoes were too tight and her hair too buffy. She managed to keep smiling when one of the waiters chipped a big chunk of icing off the wedding cake she’d spent days decorating.
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We had a lunchtime reception because it was cheaper than an evening do. The food was beautiful and the service first class but I wished I could’ve had more than a sip of wine. Tim made up for it though, downing glass after glass. I continued to smile through the speeches and the cutting of the cake, then, when the final toast had been made, we danced the bridal waltz to the tune of You are the sunshine of my life. Whose idea was that? Later, we disgraced ourselves doing the Macarena, Nutbush, and — the chicken dance. No wonder our marriage failed.
Three months after the ceremony Tim moved back to his parents’ place in Wagga. He’d picked the hottest day that summer to move out. I was too worn out with the heat to argue with him, too exhausted with the nausea that had dragged into the last trimester to talk him out of going. In any case, I wasn’t sure I wanted him to stay. So that was the end of Tim. Although to be fair, when Sam was born, he scooted up to Canberra on his nearly-new metallic-bronze Harley, looking almost dashing in a pair of tight black leather pants and a studded jacket that creaked when he stooped to pick up Sam. He stayed long enough to get a baby capsule fitted to my car. I had to pay for it, of course, and “lend” him money for petrol so he could pick us up from hospital. He drove us home and carried Sam into the house like any doting dad. I trailed behind with an armful of bags, a not-quite-dead bunch of flowers and an enormous fluoro-blue bear guaranteed to scare any child. I can’t say Tim was a great help; he held a sleeping Sam while I made up his cot. He continued to hold him while I made two cups of coffee we had to drink black because he’d forgotten to buy milk on his way to the hospital. By the time my coffee had grown cold, Sam was fast asleep. Tim tucked himself into his leathers and gave Sam a kiss on the top of his head and me a kiss on the side of the mouth. We stared at each other for a few seconds then he clipped himself into his helmet, mounted his bike, and rode off into the sunset.
I never saw him again. Eighteen months later he rode into the front of a petrol tanker that had strayed onto the wrong side of the road. It was hours before the police came round.
Now there’s just me and my son, Sam MacAllister. Such a nice name. Those first few years as a single mother weren’t easy. Mum helped, of course, driving down from Sydney as often as she could. Poor Mum, she’s still helping me.
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Chapter 16 “What d’ya mean you can’t eat?” Josh asks. My head feels heavy as I turn to face him. “It’s not hard to understand, even for someone as dumb as you.” “Hey, Sam, just ’cos you’re sick don’t mean you can pick on Josh,” Brett chips in, “he can’t help being dumb.” Brett and Sam do a high five, a smile lighting up Sam’s face. “Yeah, right,” Josh says, looking puzzled. He carries on with his questioning, “I thought, you know, man, you can usually eat anything.” “I can, usually,” says Sam, “but sometimes, like now, I feel too sick to eat.” “Bummer,” says Brett. “Yeah,” adds Josh, then he has another thought: “Hey, did you hear about that man who ate a plane?” “A real one?” asks Sam. “A real man or a real plane?” Josh asks. “A real plane, you dummy,” says Brett. “Course it was a real plane.” Brett isn’t convinced. “How d’ya know?” he demands. “It’s in the Guinness Book of Records … can’t remember what kind of plane it was.” Brett looks thoughtful. “Must’ve been a small one.” The three boys are silent for a few moments, each imagining how they’d set about eating a plane, even a small one. Sam puts their thoughts into words: “All that metal — and rubber — and plastic. Wonder what it was like when he had to take a dump?”
The boys’ laughter drifts down the corridor. One child, a three-year-old girl with leukaemia, is asleep. Her father watches as her lips curl in a smile. Just for a moment he’s reminded how life used to be. How life still is … for other people. He wraps his arms around his chest and hugs himself as the laughter fades.
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Chapter 17 “What’re you doing?” “What does it look like? I’m baking a cake.” “At three in the morning?” “I can’t sleep.” Mum shrugs and pulls her dressing gown tighter. “Neither can I so I though I’d make a cup of tea. Want one?” I don’t but I nod politely. Mum squeezes past to reach the sink. I switch off the beater and scrape cake mixture off the blades. If Sam was here he would’ve scraped the bowl until every last trace of cake mix was gone. I drop the blades in the sink. I divide the mixture between two tins, level the tops, and slide them into the oven. Meanwhile Mum has made tea, real tea in a china pot, with cups and saucers. She puts everything on a tray and carries it to the table. “Who’re the cakes for?” “One’s for Sam. He wants to give it to Hannah and the other nurses. The other one’s for the paramedics. I’ll take it to the centre at Belconnen. That’s the nearest. If it’s not the right place I’m sure someone will pass it on.” “Do you know their names?” “Yeah, Hannah told me. Nick and Al. They came in the next day to see how Sam was, make sure he was all right. That was kind of them wasn’t it? Al, the older one, has a son Sam’s age.” Mum nods, her face thoughtful. “What about the couple who found him?” “I saw Jade the other day, Mum, I told you. Don’t you remember? And they’re not a couple , not yet anyway.” I smile, remembering Jade’s face when she talked about Adam. “I thought about giving them each a bottle of wine.” “Snap,” Mum says, clicking her fingers, “I was going to give him a bottle when he brought round Sam’s bike but I didn’t know which one to give him.” I follow Mum’s eyes as she looked at the almost-empty wine rack tucked neatly into a corner of the family room. “Sorry, I should’ve told you, I have a simple system. The good wine’s at the bottom — it’s harder to reach and if a bottle gets knocked off it doesn’t have far to fall.” “Good plan. I didn’t know you were so organised.” “I had a good role model.” Mum smiles. “I’m glad I came in useful for something.”
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“How do you know I was talking about you?” Mum’s smile widens as she swats a hand in my direction. “Maggie?” I look up. Mum sounds unusually tentative. “Do you think things would be different … if you and Tim …” I hold out a hand, palm facing her, the stop sign. “Mum, don’t.” I close my eyes, trying to shut out that dreary cemetery in Wagga, standing next to Nora, Tim’s mother, as she sobbed at the loss of her only child. She clung to my arm as if worried I might disappear. And that’s exactly what I did. Hours after the funeral tea was over, when the last plate was washed and put away, the cushions plumped in the family room, I picked up a sleeping Sam and headed home to Canberra. I left with promises to stay in touch. I kept my word; Nora didn’t write except at Christmas and Sam’s birthday. She’s dead too now. “It was awful when Tim died,” I say, as if Mum has been following my thoughts. Mum nods, a distant look on her face; she’s been trawling the past too. I sigh and let my shoulders slump, rolling my head from side to side, trying to ease the tension that’s built up in the back of my neck. Mum watches me sympathetically. What will she think if I book us in for a massage? “What a gloomy pair we are; like two old widow women.” Mum says. I laugh. “Well we are two widow women, not sure about being old, at least I’m not old.” Mum laughs and gives me a playful slap on my arm. We sip our tea in silence. I’m tired but too wound up to sleep. I feel strangely content sitting at my kitchen table, surrounded by the warm smell of baking and freshly brewed tea. Having Mum here is comforting, like being a child again with no responsibilities.
The shrilling of the oven timer breaks the peace. I switch it off and open the door to check on progress. I’m hit by a gentle wave of heat and the rich scents of chocolate and vanilla. The cakes are perfect. I put the tins on the draining board and join Mum. No sooner have I sat down than she starts yawning, face splitting yawns she doesn’t try to hide. “I’m going back to bed,” she says, “you should try to get some sleep too.” “Not yet. I’ll wait till the cakes cool down then I’ll put them away. I’ll ice them in the morning.” “It’s morning already,” Mum says. “You know what I mean.”
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Mum shuffles off and I start tidying up. A snaky-grey light comes creeping round the edges of the kitchen blind. There’s something magical about the sunrise, heralding a new day full of hope. I close my eyes.
Mum and I are going to spend the day with Sam after I drop off one of the cakes at the Emergency Services Centre. I’m going to stay the night; it’s only two days before his big operation. When they try to cut out as much of the tumour as they can. I can’t get my head around all the things that could go wrong, before, during and after surgery. I tell myself the doctors know what they’re doing; they’ve seen it all before. But I haven’t, and neither has Sam. We’re both new to this. Sam trusts me. He believes me when I tell him everything will be all right. I’ve never lied to him before. Well, perhaps the occasional white lie about Santa and the Tooth Fairy and how babies are made but nothing like the fucking big lies I’m telling him now. Will this operation make me better? Will you be there when they cut my head open? Why do I need chemo and radiotherapy? When can I come home? So many questions, so many decisions. What the fuck do I know?
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Chapter 18 This place, wherever it is, feels safe and warm. I know I’m indoors, somewhere clean, a familiar antiseptic smell. I’m on my back. My body feels heavy. I can’t move but I’m not worried. I want to stay in this safe place but something’s nagging at me, dragging me away from this comfortable cocoon. My mouth’s dry, my tongue swollen. My eyes are gritty. I screw them up, trying to get rid of whatever is keeping them closed. I force them open but they keep closing. All this concentration is making me tired. I try to move my head but something is holding it. I can’t move my arms either. Or my legs. Now I’m scared. I force my eyes open. The light burns them, sending pain pulsing through my brain. I close my eyes but something, curiosity perhaps, takes over and they flutter open. I peer through half-closed lids, everything is super bright. The pain is excruciating. I close my eyes again.
Reality comes drifting back like mist clearing on a frosty morning. I want to slip back to that other, safer place, but I know this is where I have to be, this room, this bed, this thing, whatever it is, holding my head. I try to touch it, feel where they sawed through my skull, drilled into my brain, but I can’t move his arms. I wonder what would happen if I wanted to scratch my nose and it immediately starts to itch. I wriggle and twitch my nose like a demented bunny but it makes it worse. I clear his throat, my voice sounds normal. “Hello, hello.” A feeble sound. I try again. “Hello, hello. Anyone there?” That’s better. A nurse bustles in, one I’ve never seen before. “Hello, I’m Katherine.” She picks up my hand and looks at the watch pinned on her ample breasts, her lips moving as she counts the seconds. When she’s finished she places my hand carefully on top of the blankets. She steps to one side and scrabbles around in the instrument trolley. She finds what she’s looking for and turns back to the bed. “You didn’t take long to come round,” she says, smiling, “I only slipped out for a minute.” It was more than a minute, but I don’t argue, I couldn’t have said anything even if I wanted to because she’d shoved a thermometer in my mouth. Besides, she has a soothing, singsong voice. I can’t place her accent but I could listened to it all day. It was very comforting. Perhaps she’ll tell me a story. While she waits for the thermometer to do its thing, Katherine wraps a cuff around my arm. She grins and I feel my blood pressure rising. It’s a relief when she takes the thermometer out. I try to speak but the words stick in my throat. I wait while she unwraps the
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cuff and writes the scores on my chart, slipping the pen into her pocket. There’s something about that movement that’s scares me, I don’t want her to go. “Everything okay?” I ask. She smiles, looking me in the eyes, “Everything’s fine. I’ll let doctor know you’ve come round. Meanwhile, you’ve got a visitor.” I watch her stride off, her uniform swishing as she walks.
I don’t know how long I slept. I wake to find Mum sitting by my bed, holding my hand, stroking my fingers as if playing This Little Piggy. She must’ve been waiting hours for me to wake up. “Hi, Sam, how are you?” “Not bad,” I croak. I clear my throat and try again, “Good.” Mum smiles and I notice the creases on her forehead disappear. “The doctor looked in while you were asleep. Said you’re doing very well. He’s very pleased with you.” I manage a brief smile, letting her know I’m pleased that the doctor is pleased. It feels weird to think someone has been messing about inside my head. I imagine a huge electric saw cutting through my skull, whining like a giant dentist’s drill. Bone dust floating in the air, settling on my skin like flour, turning me into a living ghost. One of the walking dead. A zombie. I smile again and close my eyes.
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Chapter 19 He wakes again a few hours later. I’m still here. Where else can I go? This time Sam seems more alert, his eyes have lost that glazed look and his skin looks less grey. I lean over and kiss his cheek, lips skimming his smooth, soft skin. Sam’s eyes meet mine. “Mum?” “Yes?” My voice sounds surprisingly calm considering that my stomach’s trying to claw its way out through my throat. “I’m not having a good time.” He tries to smile but can’t make it. I rub his hand, stoking each finger in turn. I can feel his eyes on me. I stop playing with his hands. “It’s not much fun, is it? I wish it was me …” “I don’t,” Sam says, his eyes watering, “I don’t want you to feel like this.” This is awful; I’m doing it all wrong. But what’s the right way? I wish there was a book of rules about what to do in situations like this. I try again. “Yeah,” I say, “having a brain tumour’s as much use as … as a fur coat in Alice.” My shoulders relax. This is more like it. “Or a dead donkey’s donger,” he said. I pretend to look shocked. “That’s a bit rude. Did you make it up?” “No, that’s what Grandpa used to say — when Gran wasn’t around of course.” It’s my turn. I can’t think of anything so I fall back on an old favourite. “What about a runny egg?” “Yuck,” he says, rolling his eyes before gazing around the room in search of inspiration. He finds it. “As much use as a paper saw — I mean one made of paper not one that cuts paper.” He pauses, “It’s be hard to cut paper with a saw — you’d need to hold it with both hands so you wouldn’t have a free hand to cut it with.” He’s on a roll, hands flapping, face flushed with delight: “What about curry flavoured ice cream?” “Did you know,” I say in my serious voice, “that you can buy curried ice cream? Rhonda and Gerard had it at that posh restaurant in Belconnen. We should go there one night.” “Not if I have to eat curried ice cream; sounds like dog vomit.” Sam pauses. I watch him thinking. “Wonder what it tastes like?” he asks. “What? Dog vomit?”
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Sam’s mouth curls in a small smile, “Duh, I mean curried ice cream.” “I’ve never tried it. Rhonda said it was interesting but that could mean anything. Besides, Gerard was listening so perhaps she was being polite.” “I can’t imagine Aunty Rhonda being polite.” I flap a hand at him. He’s still smiling but it’s as if someone has flicked the dimmer switch. His eyelids flutter closed and within minutes he’s snoring softly. I watch him sleep. I’m in no hurry to leave.
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Chapter 20 I love my bed. I crawl under the doona and tell myself not to feel guilty. I’ve been with Sam for most of the day, and the previous day and the day before that, and I’m exhausted. Mum volunteered to spend the evening with Sam while I had a rest. I frittered away my free time sitting at the kitchen table doodling on the back of The Canberra Times, ostensibly trying to complete the quick crossword but in reality just blacking in the white squares. Dr Field said Sam is doing as well as can be expected so it’s all right to take a break, I tell myself, besides, Mum’s taking my place at Sam’s bedside. It gives Sam a break from me lets Mum spend time on her own with him. A win/win situation, right? So why do I feel guilty?
Despite the guilt I have no trouble going to sleep. I’m in the middle of a lovely dream, walking with Sam along a sunlit beach, when Mum comes home. My being asleep doesn’t stop her diving into my room. Nor does it stop her chattering like a hyperactive budgie. I pull the bedclothes over my head hoping she’ll take the hint but she ignores it and pulls them down. “You’re not asleep are you?” “Apparently not.” Mum ignores the sarcasm. “That nice young couple were at the hospital when I got there. You know — the ones who found Sam. What’re their names? Oh, I remember, Jade and Adam. They didn’t stay long. Sam said they’d brought him some comics and fruit. Adam gave him an electronic gadget. I’ve no idea what it was but Sam seemed pleased with it. People can be so kind.” I don’t say anything; don’t say that Jade and Adam might be nice and young but they aren’t a couple. At least, I don’t think they are. “I was telling them about Angie, this woman I work with. She had her arm amputated when she was 15, bone cancer.” “Poor thing.” I murmur. “Oh, she’s over it. Says it’s the best thing that could’ve happened.” I give Mum a puzzled look. “Seriously, she said if they hadn’t cut her arm off she’d be dead by now. She says it’s interesting how people react when they see her for the first time. Some try to pretend they haven’t noticed she’s missing an arm, others can’t stop talking about it. Even complete strangers. She’ll be standing in a queue at the checkout and the person behind will tap her on
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the shoulder, looking all sympathetic, and ask how she lost her arm. Once a woman stopped her in the street, pointed at Angle’s empty sleeve and said: ‘You’ve lost your arm.’ Angie waggled her sleeve and said: ‘Shit, I had it when I set off.’” We both roar with laughter. Mum doubles over, body shaking. I hope she doesn’t wet herself, not while she’s sitting on my bed.
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Chapter 21 Sam still looks pale but then he always does; pale is his natural colour. The only time he has a healthy colour is when he’s sick. Except now. Today he’s grey pale not his more usual peachy-pale although compared to a couple of days ago he’s a picture of health. I shudder, remembering the shock of seeing him after surgery, a nurse sitting by his bed, constantly monitoring him. His poor head swathed in bandages, a tube dangling, dripping redly into a small bottle. Hannah said it’s to drain away excess blood. I’m glad it’s gone. I unpack the things I’ve brought, arranging them carefully in the locker next to his bed. Clean pyjamas on the bottom shelf, tissues and fruit poppers on the second one, books and comics on the top shelf. I kick the bag holding my stuff under the bed. Last night I slept on a mattress at the side of his bed. Hannah said I could sleep in one of the units across the road from the hospital. They’re for families of really sick kids. I’m fine here, I said, I’ve got a mattress and I can use the parents’ facilities. It’s a bit like camping out, trotting along to the shower with soap and towel, making tea and toast in the communal kitchen, sharing a joke with other parents. It’s a bit like a Girl Guide camp I went on when I was twelve, all the way to Tarago. It poured down for the whole weekend. Sixteen giggly girls in the community hall, tossing and turning all night as we tried to get comfortable in wafer-thin sleeping bags on a hard wooden floor. In the morning we found someone had turned off the water. The caretaker wouldn’t answer his phone so the guide leader and some bigger girls went to a nearby house and returned with half a dozen buckets of tepid water. When the water was too putrid to wash in we used it to flush the toilet. It’s a bit like camping out but not quite. No one chose to come here. And what about the view? A depressing outlook over the hospital car park. Personally I’d prefer one overlooking a beach or a tropical rainforest.
I must have dozed off. The sun’s setting when I wake up, a rosy glow settling over the Woden valley. I shiver, remembering the hellfire sunsets of the 2003 bushfires, the red-rimmed sun that greeted us each dawn. It was terrifying — and beautiful. I yawn and rub my eyes. Sam’s chuckling to himself, earphones in, iPod balanced on his chest. He sees me and pulls out one of the earphones and points to his iPod. “Brett gave me a file from the guys at school.” I’ve no idea what he’s talking about but I nod and he plugs himself back in. I settle back in the vinyl chair, trying to ignore the embarrassing sounds it makes. I can imagine what Sam’s friends say when they hear it. I flip through a magazine, stopping at a story about a
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mother trying to conceive a designer baby. The idea is that doctors would use the stem cells from the umbilical cord blood to help her three-year-old son beat leukaemia. I’d do the same thing if it would help Sam. It’s be hard to get a perfect match with Tim dead and I don’t have any sperm to defrost. I check my horoscope: “You, or someone close to you, will hear some good news. Possibly a pay rise or a small windfall. Don’t feel guilty, you’ve earned it.” I drop the magazine on the floor and pick up The Canberra Times. I’m reading the letters to the editor when Sam unplugs his IPod and tosses it on the bed. “Jade texted me while you were asleep. She’s so funny. Told me about her new house mates. Said they label all their stuff in the fridge and mark the levels so they know if someone’s used it. I’d hate to live like that.” I smile, remembering the horror of my first shared house experiences, how it took me days to discover which one of my flat mates was raiding my purse. Another one was trying to get off with my then boyfriend. They refused to let me take my iron with me when I moved out. I called the police but they said I needed a receipt as proof of ownership. As if I’d keep something like that. House sharing is one of those life events that are best enjoyed in retrospect. I wonder how Sam will look back on his time in hospital. I hope it won’t all be miserable. Sam slides down the bed, he looks exhausted. “You okay?” Sam nods. “Just a bit tired.” “Why don’t you have a nap, I promise to wake you in time for dinner.” We both smile. I often tell Sam he’s world famous in Canberra for his ability to consume more than his own bodyweight at a single sitting, but even he can’t get excited about hospital food. He picks up his iPod and plugs himself in. It’s dark now. I can see myself reflected in the window. Just another mother with a sick child. I look at my watch, almost dinnertime. Just time for a cuppa, though. Sam’s nodding, lost in whatever passes for music these days. Strange, I never imagined myself saying that. Here I am, a child of the seventies, growing up listening to the solid-rock classics of the eighties. What do I know about good or bad music? Eye of the Tiger was the first record I ever bought and I almost wore out my copy of Simply Irresistible. I even had a spiral perm. I thought I was a cross between Olivia Newton-John and Kylie Minogue. I should be so lucky. I slip out of Sam’s room and head for the kitchen. I can hear other parents. Someone’s telling a joke. Everyone laughs politely; it eases the tension.
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Sam’s still asleep when I get back. The room’s pleasantly warm. It’s restful watching him, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, the soft sounds he makes when he exhales. I used lie awake at night when he was a baby, watching his tiny chest rise and fall, afraid that if I went to sleep or stopped watching he’d stop breathing. I’d doze off and wake up feeling guilty. I’d stroke his cheek or tickle his feet to make sure he was still alive and he’d screw up his face and grizzle at being disturbed. Now I’m determined to stay awake. I’ve brought a book with me, Marion Halligan’s latest “Apricot” mystery. Nothing like a good “who dun it” to keep me awake.
The book kept me engrossed for hours but eventually I drifted off. I wake to see a shaft of sunlight filtering through the windows, lighting up the dust motes dancing in the updraft, making them sparkle. Sam’s still sleeping. I lean closer to the bed, breathing in the scent of my son, as familiar as my own, now changed. The sweet smell of sickness clings to him. I decide to have an early shower, get ready for the new day. Some of Sam’s friends are coming to see him this afternoon. That’ll be a good time to duck home and check on Lady and pick up some clean clothes.
Sam’s visitors were just leaving when I get back to the hospital. Sam’s eyes are sparkling with excitement, his cheeks faintly flushed. He manages to eat a few mouthfuls of dinner before pushing the plate away. Within minutes he’s asleep. I pick up my Marion Halligan and start reading. Not for long, though. I hear someone outside the door. There’s a gentle knock and a face peers in. Jade. She comes in, hovering near the door, ready to run. I smile and she comes further in, a young man following her. She leans over the bed, scanning Sam’s face before turning her amazing green eyes on me. “How is he?” she whispers. “He’s asleep,” I whisper back, as if she can’t see for herself, “he’s doing very well. The doctor said he can come home in a day or two. Just for a few days. He’ll have to come back to have his chemo.” Jade looks as if she’s going to cry. I pat her arm and she sighs, nodding to show her empathy. I feel sorry for her. “Poor Sam.” She puts a hand on top of his, stroking it briefly before turning to the young man still hovering in the doorway. He responds to her cue and hands me a bag. “A few comics and things.”
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Sam told me later that the things included a play station about the size of a mobile phone. Adam told him he was getting rid of them because he had a shipload of the next generation play stations coming in. None of this meant anything to me but Sam’s eyes were on stalks while he was telling me. “Hi, I’m Adam.” His voice is deep and … chocolatey. He looks older than I expected with fine lines round his mouth and eyes that deepen when he smiles. Now I have another reason to envy Jade. He holds out a hand and I shake it briefly. His hand is cool and dry, his grip firm and confident. Jade’s right: his eyes are amazing, the colour of mist rising from the lake on a winter’s morning. I could drown in them. He releases my hand but his eyes stay locked on mine, his lips curl in a wondrous smile. I straighten my shoulders and smile back. “Mum said you’d brought Sam’s bike back. Thank you.” “Glad I could help.” The kindness of strangers. I never realised how often we rely on other people, those good Samaritans we may never see again. These two don’t need to visit Sam, or give him presents, it’s enough that they’d stayed with him until the ambulance arrived. Adam edges into the room. His aftershave smells expensive. “Why don’t you take some time out, grab a coffee or …. something?” “I’m fine, thanks, there’s coffee in the kitchen. I could do with a glass of something but I’d better not.” Adam grins; he’s got a dimple on his left cheek. So cute. “That’s up to you … I thought you might like a break. We’ll sit with Sam till you get back.” “I am tired, didn’t realise it showed.” “No, no, you look great,” Adam says, with that heart-melting smile. I wish he’d stop doing that. Still, I have been sitting here for a long time; I could do with a break … I look from Adam to Jade. She smiles, her face radiant. Mum’s right, they do make a nice couple. Adam senses my reluctance. “Don’t worry; Sam’ll be fine.” I stand up. My back feels stiff. I need some fresh air. “Thanks. I’ll be hanging around the main entrance if you need me.” I stretch my arms above my head. “I don’t mean literally hanging around …” Adam laughs and Sam stirs in his sleep.
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Mum’s there when I get back. Adam jumps to his feet when I walk in, ready to go, but Jade keeps talking to Mum. He edges closer to the wall so I can sit down. I sense him looking at me and I turn to face him. His eyes stay fixed on mine. Close up they’re a darker shade of grey, the colour of the sea in moonlight. He holds my look: I feel warm and tingly. What’s wrong with me? I look away. I give myself a mental shake and clear my throat, hoping my voice sounds normal. “Thanks,” I say, “it was good to get some fresh air.” Adam gets the message. He shoots Jade a “come on” look but she carries on talking. “At least I got my money back from the cruise company,” she says, tossing her hair, “It’s a shame, I was looking forward to it.” “It’s probably for the best,” I say. Everyone turns towards me. “Some friends of mine went on a cruise, said they had to spend two weeks with a bunch of baby boomers recreating their misspent youth.” “Hey,” Mum says, “we didn’t all have a misspent youth. Some of us were too busy looking after our own baby boom.” She looks at me, a wide grin on her face, “but it’s not too late to rebel. I plan to grow old disgracefully.” “Yes,” I say, “I can see you in your wheelchair, a tartan rug on your lap, singing along to I can’t get no satisfaction.” Everyone laughs, gently though, careful not to wake Sam. “Jade?” Adam asks, as he moves towards the door, “I’m going now. Do you want a lift or can you make your own way?” I’m impressed. That’s a brilliant line. It’s impossible to get to or from the hospital by public transport — poor Mum once got on the wrong bus and ended up in Gungahlin — and there are never any taxis in Canberra when you need one. Adam’s message is clear, leave now or walk home. I could offer Jade a lift, she had saved Sam’s life after all and I’d enjoyed her company the other night, but I want her to go. Eventually Jade gets the message and stands up, knocking her chair against the base of the bed. Sam stirs, eyelids fluttering open then closing again. Adam is the last to leave. He rests his hand against Sam’s cheek and turns to face me. “See you again, Maggie,” he says, smiling. “Sam’s got my mobile number; let me know if you need anything.” I thank him and he walks off. When they’ve gone, Mum gives me one of her looks. “What a nice young man,” she says, “I think Jade’s wasting her time, he seems more interested in you.”
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I lower my eyes, my cheeks reddening. “You’ve got to be joking, Mum, he’s just being kind. In any case, I’m years older than him.” Mum harrumphs, her lips curling in her I-know-better-than-you look.
We sit in silence watching Sam wrestle with the last of his dreams. I bathe his face with a damp washer while Mum goes to the kitchen to refill his water jug with cold water and ice chips. He’s always thirsty when he wakes up.
Sam’s sitting up having a drink when the nurse comes in, not Hannah this time. Katherine’s older and plumper, with a faint Irish accent. She was probably a child when she came to this country, I decide, but she hasn’t lost that lovely lilt to her voice. Katherine does what she has to do briskly and efficiently. She’s not as chatty as Hannah but she seems to know what she’s doing and she’s very gentle with Sam. A few days earlier Sam told me that some of the other patients — not him, of course, he was still recovering from his op — had devised a game called “The Canberra Cup”. Each patient took it in turns to press their bell and count how long it took the nurses to respond. It didn’t take Katherine long to work out what was going on but she couldn’t ignore the bells. She got her own back, though, pretending that each time she responded to a bell she found something wrong with the patient. The treatment, she decided, was total silence for the rest of the day. She said she might have to unplug their TVs and take away their mobile phones. I don’t know if she would’ve carried out her threat but no one played that trick again.
When Katherine leaves I give Sam the package I’d brought for him. It’s obviously a book and I watch anxiously as he unwraps it. It’s covered in rich-red leather-look binding with gold lettering, like a bible or a small encyclopaedia. Sam flicks through the blank pages. “It’s a journal,” I say. “like a diary only you don’t have to write in it every day.” I struggle to find the right words, “in case you want to write something, you know, things you don’t want to say …” “Thanks,” he says, putting it on top of his locker. He picks up another book and hands it to me. Gilbert’s Ghost Train. “Ms Connor — you know her, she takes us for English — lent it to me. It’s about this boy, Martin, whose brother’s got leukaemia. He sort of invents this man, Gilbert, an old soldier, and an steam train. Ms Connor said it’s, like, a metaphor ... for the journey the brother will take … like, when he dies.”
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Sam’s face reddens. I don’t know about Mum but I’m finding it hard to control myself. I keep my eyes fixed firmly on the book in Sam’s hand. Mum manages to find her voice before I can say anything. “Is it any good?” “I haven’t finished it,” Sam says, “but it seems okay, it’s a bit sad.” His eyes catch mine and my stomach starts churning. “Ms Connor said he reminds her of me.” “What?” I feel like I’m choking, as if a strong pair of hands are gripping my windpipe. What an awful thing to say to a sick kid. Sam guesses my thoughts. “Not the one whose dying, Mum, the other one, Martin. She said he’s smart and sensitive, like me.” My blood pressure drops to nearly normal. I let my shoulders relax. At the last parent-teacher evening Ms Connor had spoken highly of Sam’s work. Said he’s one of her best students. Said he has an extensive vocabulary and a good imagination; his stories are a pleasure to read. “Who knows,” she said, smiling, “he might be a writer one day.”
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Chapter 22 I pick up the journal Mum gave me. I flick through the blank pages. Perhaps Mum’s right, it might help to write things down. It doesn’t matter who reads it, not even Mum, what can she do to me? I open the book at the first page and dutifully writes the day, date and, after glancing at my watch on my bedside locker, the time. I chew the end of my lime-green glow- in-the-dark pen. It tastes yucky but everything tastes yucky these days. I remove the pen and lick my lips, they’re cracked and sore. I have to stop myself biting the dry skin because it makes my lips bleed. Everything hurts these days, even my eyebrows.
I try to write but I don’t have the energy. Instead, I let my thoughts run around my head, forming them into phrases I can write later, when I feel better.
My head hurts, no, it more than hurts, it’s fucking painful. Can’t they do something about it? I wonder what would happen if I screamed SOMEBODY STOP THIS FUCKING AWFUL PAIN. That would wake them up. What would Mum say about my swearing? Probably nothing, she says fuck all the time. Well, not all the time, but she says it a lot.
These bandages are too tight; they’re crushing my skull. Maybe they’re meant to be like that so my head bones can join up again. Imagine sawing open somebody’s head, looking at all that blood and goop, with the brain pulsing away. Must be a cool job. The doctor showed me a picture of the inside of my head, pretty neat. Least I can prove I’ve got a brain.
I feel sick, wish I could sit up, I don’t want to chuck on my ’jamas. I’d better stop thinking about it, that’s what Mum said when I used to get carsick. Didn’t always work, though. Like the time we were going down the Clyde Mountain. It was stinking hot and there was nowhere to pull over and I ended up being sick all down myself. We drove all the way to Bateman’s Bay with the windows down. Mum took me to the toilets to hose me down. Then she scraped the yuck off the seat with a stick and half a roll of toilet paper. Must be awful having kids.
Wonder what chemo will be like? Sounds gross with all that vomiting. Glad I got my head shaved so my hair won’t fall out. Swimmers shave their heads, makes them swim faster. Wonder if I’ll be able to swim faster when this is over?
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Dr Field said one of the downsides of chemo is getting leukaemia. Said I now have a 1 in 200 chance of getting it. And not just the normal kind, no, this is the big mother fucking incurable kind. Great, isn’t it? If the cancer doesn’t kill me then the leukaemia will.
My head’s fucking sore, not just fucking sore; it’s fuck, fuck, fucking sore.
I need to piss. I’ll press the bell, get those nurses running.
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Chapter 23 I watch Rhonda as she looks around her neat lounge room: pale-green walls and plush carpet in a deeper shade of green, plum-coloured leather armchairs, a matching three-seater couch, antique grandfather clock and a secretaire with leadlight cupboard doors. All beautifully maintained. Just like their owner in her designer label jeans and T-shirt. I, on the other hand, look like I’ve just got out of bed. My new-to-me cream-coloured pants came from an op shop, as did my black linen shirt that starts to wrinkle as soon as I put it on. Now it looks like I’ve not ironed it. Rhonda’s clothes wouldn’t dare wrinkle. She glares at me. Lucky Rhonda, even when she glares she still looks gorgeous. Her hair looks like it’s just been cut, but then it always does. Perhaps she has a resident hairdresser. And surely she’s had it coloured recently, it’s not usually such a vibrant red. My hair does its own thing. I piled it on top of my head this morning and it’s already come unglued, long strands flopping all over my face. I yawn, too lazy to cover my mouth, giving Rhonda a close up of my tonsils and my chipped front tooth. I wonder if she remembers how that happened? Me falling head first into a compost heap at the side of the garage, blood spurting from a split lip. I don’t remember what I was doing on the roof but I was always tripping over and falling off things. Rhonda was the quiet one, the sensitive one. And she’s still the one with her feet the ground. She was such a tiny thing when we met. She’s taller now but still as skinny as a stick; says her metabolism lets her eat anything she likes and not put on weight. She once said she sometimes forgets to eat. How can you forget to eat? I’m always forgetting where I’ve put my keys or parked my car, or even my own name, but I never forget to eat. “Sorry,” I say. Rhonda stops glaring. “What for?” “Yawning like that.” “I hope it’s ’cos you’re tired and not because I’m boring you.” I laugh. “I’d love to be bored. Seriously, I am tired. Probably because I’m not getting any sleep. Sometimes I wish I could hide under my doona and sleep and sleep and sleep. When I wake up all this …” I wave my arms in the air “will be just a bad dream.” Rhonda inclines her head; a graceful movement. She looks like she’s about to say something, her lips shaping the words. Perhaps she doesn’t realise she’s not making a noise. I stifle another yawn, feeling my facial muscles contorting. I wonder what I look like? Rhonda folds her hands tidily and waits until she’s got my full attention.
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“I’m reading this great book … about grief.” She straightens her shoulders and avoids eye contact. I wait but she doesn’t offer to show me the book. A wise decision; I might hit her with it. Rhonda continues to stare at something over my left shoulder. “Maggie, I’m your oldest friend. I want to help.” She halts briefly then continues: “Did you know that people go through five phases when they hear the “C” word?” “No, I didn’t but I bet you’re going to tell me.” I don’t know if Rhonda picks up on my sarcasm but she gives no sign; she just ploughs on: “First there’s denial, when you hope the doctor’s made a mistake or given you someone else’s result, then you hide and pretend it’s not happening”. She pauses. “Then anger, asking why me? Then what the author calls bargaining, where you try to cut a deal with God or whoever to get more time. The fourth phase is depression, and finally acceptance.” Rhonda stops talking, a superior look on her face. My hand itches to slap her. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better, is it? Knowing I’m just like everyone else? Now I’m moving from denial to the anger phase? Maybe I’ll stick with the anger phase, eh? Sod the rest, this feels fine.” “I’m trying to help,” Rhonda says again, “I don’t know what to do. You don’t seem to be taking this … thing … seriously.” My chest tightens, my throat fills with phlegm and bad temper. Then something strange happens; I start to giggle, gently at first but before long I’m letting out thunderous guffaws that bounce off the walls, roiling and boiling around us. I’m like a woman possessed, choking and sobbing with laugher. Rhonda stares at me, her face tight. “What’s wrong with you? There’s nothing to laugh at.” “Nothing’s wrong with me, Rhonda. It’s Sam, he’s the one who’s sick.” I break off, tears choking me. I blow my nose loudly, honking like a goose, take a deep breath and continue: “See, I can cry. Does it make you feel better?” It’s my turn to glare and I do it well. It’s as if I’m seeing her for the first time, wondering how she sees me. Am I someone who needs saving? A heroine in a Jane Austen novel, in a frock of sprigged muslin — whatever that is — reclining all pale and wan on a chaise longue, dabbing my eyes with a scrap of fine cambric – at least I know what that is. She’d be there with the smelling salts and sympathy. Perhaps I’d be better off swooning all over the place, it’s got to be easier than trying to be so fucking cheerful all the time. I blow my nose again. Where do all these tears come
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from? No wonder my insides feel so empty. And there’s the pain, too, right behind my navel where Sam’s umbilical chord once united us, as if it’s being ripped out, slowly and painfully. The tie that binds, till death do us part. But aren’t I supposed to die first? I’m sobbing now, crying like … like a great big crying machine. Anger, deep, raging anger, comes roaring up from somewhere deep inside, filling my head, my mouth. Pouring out like venom. “How dare you tell me what to do, how I should feel. It’s all right for you, you don’t have any kids.” Rhonda opens her mouth. I hold up my hand to silence her. “I know, I know, you’re always saying how much you’d love to have kids …” I pause, heart pumping, face red and glowing like I’ve just run a marathon. “You also say how you couldn’t cope with all those sleepless nights, all that responsibility, not being able to do what you want when you want. Not to mention the cost.” Rhonda’s mouth opens and closes like a ventriloquist’s dummy. I’m on a roll, on a ten-lane highway with an enormous neon sign saying: “WRONG WAY, GO BACK.” Do I care? Apparently not. “Don’t look at me like a stunned mullet. You know what I mean. There you are swanning around in your designer clothes and shoes that cost more than I earn in a fortnight. I shop at Target — if I’m lucky. And I’ve seen you sneer when Sam and I go off for a week in a caravan down the coast while you and Gerard jet off to Noumea, or Beijing, or … or … Reykjavik.” Something snaps in my brain, a little switch flashing a warning sign: DANGER, DANGER. I stare wide-eyed at Rhonda, arms crossed over her chest, body rigid, jaw clenched, forehead creased. I clamp a hand over my mouth. Too late. I feel Rhonda watching me as I stomp out of the house. I slam the door on her and the rest of the world.
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Chapter 24 I play with the pages of my journal. They’re thick and smooth. They feel good to write on. It must be what it was like in the old days, when everything was written by hand. Gran said she learned to write with a pen that was filled with real ink. Said you can still buy pens like that. Artists use them. I wonder if she’ll buy one for me? It’s be cool. I start to write but I feel nauseous. I manage to ring for the nurse before vomiting. It’s a new nurse; she’s called Monica, said she’s from Portugal. She’s nice. Brett and Josh are supposed to be coming to see me this arvo but I asked Monica to tell them not to bother.
I fall asleep and the journal slips from my fingers. I’m floating somewhere warm and sunny, where the sand is a pure, dazzling white and burns your feet if you stand too long in one spot. Josh shakes a can of lemonade and pulls the tab, spraying me and Brett with sticky foam. Brett and I chase him into the water, the lazy waves washing over us. I smile as I swim away.
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Chapter 25 No word from Rhonda. Bitch. I don’t know why she’s still pissed off with me. I rang to say I was sorry, said I didn’t mean it. I got the answering machine. She must’ve got the message by now. She could’ve called to see how I am. It’s not just about me, though. She hasn’t been to see Sam or rung to see how he is. Cow. I hope she’s not at the hospital when I get there.
She isn’t. Adam and Jade are. I smile a greeting. Sam looks flushed and he has a big cheesy grin. “Jade’s been telling me about her new place. Sounds cool. They’ve got Foxtel, all the channels.” I smile at Jade. “Lucky you.” “Yeah,” she says, “and because there’s only two girls and three guys I get to watch all the sport channels.” Sam’s face lights up. “I’m getting used to it,” Jade adds, “I now know the diff between AFL and rugby league.” Adam and Sam swap a look. “Do you like your new place?” I ask Jade. “It’s great,” Jade says, “it’s in Hackett. Four bedrooms, one with an ensuite, and two bathrooms. It’s got a pool table and a rumpus room with a bar.” Jade smiles. “That’s where they’ve set up the TV.” “Awesome.” Sam says, his eyes like sparklers. “Yeah,” Jade continues, “and ’cos there’s five of us the rent’s reasonable.” It sounds like hell to me, having to compete for space on the couch, never mind the fights about whose turn it is to clean the kitchen. Still, Jade seems to be happy. Perhaps that’s thanks to Adam. She can barely take her eyes off him.
I don’t notice Mum come into the room until she clears her throat. “Hi, Mum, sit down.” I get up and perch on Sam’s bed. Jade’s in the other chair playing Nintendo. “I’d better get going,” Adam says tactfully, moving towards the door. I notice he doesn’t offer Jade a lift this time. Never mind, I don’t mind sharing Sam with her today. Adam pauses in the doorway. “Fancy a coffee, Maggie? If you’ve got time …”
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I glance at Jade. She looks puzzled. Mum’s nodding her head like one of those dogs that dangle from rear windows of cars. “Why not?” I say with a shrug, “I’m sure you guys can manage without me for a while.” Sam’s smile is cheekier than ever. I can sense him grinning as I follow Adam to the lift. Adam finds a table in the hospital café and goes to order our drinks. I lean back in my chair, wondering what he wants. Perhaps he’s after advice from an older woman. I’m used to that role. Some of the young things at work treat me like a substitute Mum. Adam returns with my skinny latté and a long black. He sits down and rips open a sachet of sugar, stirring it into his coffee. I feel sorry for him. “Is it Jade?” “What?” “Jade. Is that what you want to talk about?” “Why would I … ? Oh, I see, because I asked you for coffee…” Pinpricks of heat start crawling up my neck. Maybe it’s the menopause. I look at my cup and play with the froth. Adam takes a sip of his drink, the cup clattering in the saucer when he puts it down. “No, it’s not about Jade.” He stares at me so intently I feel sure he can read my thoughts. “So why did you invite me for coffee?” He leans closer, his steel-grey eyes locked onto mine. “I wanted to ask you something.” “Ask away.” Adam clears his throat: “Maggie?” I wait. “Well, the thing is, I was wondering … would you like to have dinner with me?” “Dinner?” He smiles; he has beautiful teeth, as straight and white as piano keys. Does this man have no flaws? “Dinner,” he says again. “Why?” “Why dinner? Because I get hungry in the evening and I don’t like eating alone.” He smiles again. “Why you? Because I think you’d be good company.” “Oh.” I can’t think what else to say. “Well?”
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I can’t speak. I’m too busy trying to think of an excuse to say no, wondering why I need an excuse. I examine the contents of my coffee cup as if seeking inspiration. It’s no help at all. “I can’t.” “Why not?” “I just can’t.” I stand up and push my chair to one side. I can feel Adam watching me as I walk towards the lifts, my head high and stomach in.
Sam’s asleep when I get back. Jade stands up. “Where’s Adam?” she asks. “I left him in the café.” She gives me a look. She’s gagging to know what’s going on but doesn’t want to ask. I decide not to satisfy her curiosity. “Come on, Jade,” Mum says, standing up, yawning and stretching theatrically, “I’ll give you lift.”
I’ve fallen asleep and wake to hear Sam calling my name. “You okay?” I ask. “Apart from having cancer?” My stomach starts to free-fall but I manage to suck it in. “Yeah, apart from that. I can’t do anything about that but I might be able to help with whatever else is bugging you.” Sam grunts “I don’t know what’s wrong. Guess I’m just pissed off … and bored.” He waves his hand in the air, “Look at this place. I’m sick of being inside all the time.” I jump to my feet. “Now that I can fix.” “Where’re we going?” Sam asks as I help him put on his joggers and a hooded jumper. “For a walk.” “At this time of night? Are we allowed?” “Who’s going to stop us?” I say as I lead Sam into the corridor. We walk past the nurses’ station without making eye contact. I don’t want to spoil the moment by telling Sam it was Hannah’s idea. The last time we spoke she said I could take him for a walk around the hospital grounds if he felt up to it. I figure that if he’s well enough to be bored, he’s well enough to go for a walk. Sam looks more relaxed when the lift arrives and he’s grinning by the time we reach the ground floor.
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A set of sandstone steps, hedged on both sides by French lavender, leads the way to a series of secluded benches, separated from each other by neatly trimmed English Box hedges. Sam walks along the path that weaves past clumps of agapanthus and seaside daisies. He stops near a piece of modern sculpture, two figures, one smaller than the other, their arms entwined. He turns to face me then walks towards the nearest bench and sits down. We sit for a while listening to the sounds of the night: distant cars on Yamba Drive, the nearby snap and rustle as nocturnal creatures forage for food, the wail of a siren on its way to emergency. I wonder whose plans for the night have been ruined. Sam shivers. I move closer, but not too close. “Okay?” Sam nods, his chin almost touching his chest. He leans further forward, letting his head droop between his knees. I wait. “You know what? This is a load of shit, Mum. Fucking shit.” I slide closer, reaching out a hand for his but he pulls it away. He curls both hands into fists and punches his thighs. “Shit, shit, shit,” he shouts, his voice growing louder. I grab one fist and try to stop him from hitting himself but he’s stronger than I am. He wrenches himself away and leaps to his feet. “C’mon, better get back before they come looking for us.” I get to my feet. “It’s okay, Sam. You’re allowed to go out.” “Who said?” “Hannah.” “So why’d you make out that it was a big deal?” “Dunno. Maybe I want you to think I’m being brave, you know? Breaking the rules.” “I bet Hannah didn’t say we could go out at midnight.” “It’s not midnight.” Sam flashes me a smile. “I never knew you were such a rebel.” I relax; we’re on safer ground. “I’ve had my moments.” Sam laughs. “I know, Gran told me how you once snuck out of your bedroom window and went to a party and got sprung when you tried to get back in.” “Yeah, I'd've made a terrible burglar.” “Gran said she heard someone outside, thought they were trying to break in. Grandpa grabbed your hockey stick and went to scare him off. Imagine how he felt when he saw you.” Sam says, laughing.
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I smile. I was 17 and Mum had banned me from going to the party because I’d been late two nights in a row. Curfew was ten thirty and the second time I hadn’t got back until almost midnight. Too late for a school night, Mum said. I don’t regret sneaking out, even though Mum grounded me for a week after my daring escape. That was the night I met Tim. If I hadn’t been a rebel Sam wouldn’t be here.
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Chapter 26 The nights are never quiet. Mum’s fallen asleep, making little whistling sounds when she breathes out. I lie awake listening to some kids down the corridor coughing and gasping, dry retching as they struggle to breathe. I try to imagine what it’s like. I hold my breath as long as I can; lips pressed together, nostrils pinched tightly between thumb and forefinger. I can feel my heart beating; galloping in my ears like a herd of wild horses. Thundering hooves flying across dry, dusty earth. The dust sticks in my throat, clogging my lungs, making me desperate for air. I release my nostrils and suck in buckets of recycled air, savouring the familiar exhausting smell. It’s so fucking unfair. Those poor little kids, some of them just babies. I’ve heard them laughing in the play area. Skinny little things with pale, pinched faces and dark shadows under their eyes; eyes that don’t belong in those baby faces. It’s not fucking fair. Why is this happening? To me. To them. Why not someone really old or a homeless person? No one would miss them. Besides, they’ve had their life. I haven’t done anything yet. I make a mental list — better not write it down in case Mum or Gran see it. Things I haven’t done, like get laid, get drunk, get an A+ for maths — not — fly a plane, save the planet, have more sex, drive a Ferrari or even a fucking Toyota … I turn onto my side and bury my face in my pillow trying to block out the noise. I can hear my heart thudding against my chest: dadump, dadump, dadump. One day, one day soon, it will stop. Just like that. Wonder if they’ll have Ferraris where I’m going? Or sex?
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Chapter 27 It’s raining heavier. Inside Sam’s room I’d watched rivulets of water run down the window but I didn’t connect it with the reality of rain. After weeks, months, nay, years of drought it’s good to look out and see earth-soaking-rain streaming down the windows. I race across the car park, dodging puddles, dollops of rain soaking my hair, creeping under my collar. I reach the car just as Mum unlocks the doors. I open the passenger door and climb in, pulling the seat belt around me as Mum slams the door. It’s Mum’s birthday. We’d opened presents at the hospital. I’d wrapped the latest Maeve Binchy and a box of Belgian chocolates for Sam to give her. I’d even made a cake and stuck in a candle. We did our best but it didn’t seem right. Mum’s still fiddling with her seat belt when my mobile rings. I grab my bag and fish around for a tiny piece of technology that seems to control my life. “Hello?” “Maggie?” It’s a man’s voice, vaguely familiar. “Yes.” “It’s Adam … I was wondering how you are.” “I’m fine, thanks.” Mum stares at the rain running in rivers down the windscreen. I think she’s being polite. “Good, great,” he says, “look, I hope I didn’t upset you the other day, you know, when I asked you out.” Was I upset? Surprised, flattered maybe, but not upset. “No, I wasn’t upset.” I wonder what Mum’s making of this one-sided conversation. She doesn’t seem to be listening, she’s just watching the rain. There’s a few seconds of silence before Adam continues. “That’s good … let me know if you change your mind.” “I will, thanks.” I hang up. He’s certainly persistent. Mum starts the car. We reach the exit and are about to pull out into Yamba Drive when she stops. She slumps forward, arms folded over the steering wheel, head almost touching her chest. Oh God, she’s having a heart attack. I reach across and touch her shoulder, shaking it gently. “Mum? … Mum? What is it?” She slowly raises her head, her movements stiff and awkward.
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“Sorry, it just got to me.” She pulls the keys out of the ignition and looks at them as if she’s never seen them before. There’s a flash of light in the wing mirror as a set of headlights grow closer. “Mum, come on, we can’t stay here, we’re blocking traffic.” A car pulls up a few feet behind us, its horn blaring. Mum tosses me the keys. “You’d better drive.” She opens the door and steps out, signalling to the driver of the car behind to go around us. I slide across to the driver’s side and start the engine while Mum buckles herself in, rain dripping unchecked down her face. I drive down Hindmarsh Drive and pull in at the turnoff before the Parkway. “What’re you doing?” Mum asks as I switch off the engine. “Why are we stopping?” “We need to talk, Mum.” Mum shifts in her seat but she’s trapped, held in place by the seat belt and the knowledge that there’s nowhere to go. “Oh.” “Yes, ‘oh’.” Mum wriggles around some more, pulling the seat belt away from her body. “Take the bloody thing off if it’s bothering you.” I’m sorry as soon as the words leave my mouth but I can’t help myself. Mum looks shamefaced but she leaves the belt alone. “Well? Do you want to talk?” I say. “And don’t say what about, you know damn well what about.” Mum clears her throat. I wait but she doesn’t say anything. “Mum?” “Alright,” she says, her tone frosty, “if you insist, let’s talk.” Then an odd thing happens. Now that we’ve given ourselves permission to speak neither of us has anything to say. I give in. “What’s wrong, Mum? “It’s no good, I can’t do it.” Mum says, her voice breaking. “Do what?” I ask. Mum waves her hands in the air. “This, you, Sam, everything.” I’m stunned. “I thought you were coping, you’ve always been so strong.” “Well I’m not,” she snaps, “It’s all right for you, isn’t it? You’re allowed to lose it, to get angry.” My face flames as I remember the episode with the washing. “Sorry. I shouldn’t take it out on you.”
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“No, you shouldn’t. It’s not my fault, I just happen to be there when you need to lash out.” She rubs her hands over her face. “Perhaps I’m being selfish but this isn’t what I’d planned. It’s not meant to be like this.” She stops and I pat her shoulder, my thoughts whirling round my head. What is she talking about? “I had it all worked out, you see. I was going to retire next year or maybe just work part time. Take a long holiday, perhaps several long holidays. I thought Sam could come with me.” She sniffs and I hand her a box of tissues. She helps herself to a wad of tissues and blows her nose. She smiles, a slow, sad smile. “I hope I haven’t shattered your illusions; I know I’m a selfish old cow. Worrying about me instead of Sam. But then you can be selfish too.” “Me?” “Yes, you. You go off for hours at a time. I don’t mean going to work, but you go out with your friends. Leaving me to look after Sam.” “Whoa, is that what this is about? Me enjoying myself?” I try to control my anger. “Would it make you feel better if I walked around with my chin trailing on the floor? Is that what you want?” “No, of course not.” Mum wriggles in her seat, clenching and unclenching her hands. “I’m tired, that’s all. I can’t bear to see Sam like this. I keep thinking it should be me. I wish it was me. I’d willingly take his place.” “Me too, Mum. I keep thinking of all the awful people in the world and wonder why this is happening to Sam and not one of them.” Mum turns towards me, her eyes sparkling with tears. We each reach for a wad of tissues and blow our noses. The noise — like a pair of bull elephants — is thunderous in the small car. I laugh. Mum continues to sniff and snort. That makes me laugh more. Soon we’re giggling like schoolgirls.
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Chapter 28 I’m not asleep; just resting my eyes. The sunlight streaming in through the window makes my head ache. I turn towards the door and close my eyes. A planetary shift, a slight stirring of the air, startles me and my eyes fly open. This has to be a dream. Standing in the doorway, looking around the small room, is Emily, the hottest girl in year seven if not the whole school. Just looking at her makes my insides go all funny. She and I had hung around together for a few weeks but then I got sick. I thought she’d forgotten me. She’s tiny, with long crinkly golden hair, huge baby-blue eyes, a button nose and a wide smile. Like a doll; a real life Barbie doll. She’s almost fourteen but I don’t mind older women. She looks around the tiny room as if uncertain whether or not to come in, a small brown paper bag in one hand, a larger plastic bag in the other. I try not to stare at her chest. The light that hurts my eyes falls like a spotlight on her hair, making it shine like spun gold. It’s almost worth being sick to get her all to myself. Hours go by, well, seconds, but she doesn’t move. Perhaps she’s made a mistake. Maybe she’s come to see someone else and she’s come to the wrong room. I hold my breath, willing her to look at me. Finally her eyes lock onto mine. A strand of hair falls over her face. She leaves it there and walks towards me, heading for the seat near the window. Backlit, she looks unreal, like an angel or … something. Perhaps I’ve died and this is heaven. Then I check myself — if Emily’s here then she must be dead too. That’s too much to bear and I quickly rewrite the fantasy. Perhaps I’ve just had a glimpse of another world where all the girls look like Emily — a perfect world. No, there’s only one Emily. She’s still smiling, showing off a neat set of teeth. They remind me of a story Uncle Steve told me on my sixth birthday. The presents had been unwrapped, the cake eaten, and my friends had gone home with their party bags. A few adult friends and relatives remained, reluctant to get up from the table. Uncle Steve isn’t a real uncle; he’s a long time friend of Gran’s and has earned that title. Family legend has it that he was in love with Gran, had been for years. Other members of the family say he was gay. All I know is that he was a good bloke, generous and always up for a game of footy. Anyway, after the party Uncle Steve slouched in his chair, one arm around Gran, waving a beer can in the air with his other hand. He launched into a story about an old girlfriend, said her teeth were like stars because they came out at night. Uncle Steve laughed his socks off but I didn’t think it was funny. He’s dead now. I miss him. I slide further under the blankets, leaving my not-quite-bald head exposed. I run an exploratory tongue around my mouth, my teeth feel furry. Too late to clean them I clamp my
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lips together as Emily bends down and kisses me on the side of my mouth; a butterfly kiss. My first kiss. From a girl, that is — family doesn’t count. I hold his breath again while she pulls out a visitors’ chair and sits down, dropping her packages on the bed. I turn my head away and exhale; yuck, my breath is worse than a brown dog’s. Emily inches her chair closer to the bed. I watch as her white blouse shifts and strains with her movements; as she leans forward it pulls tightly over a chest that’s no longer flat. I know it’s rude to stare but I can’t help it. My chest feels tight, it’s hard to breathe. There’s a strange buzzing in my ears that could be the tumour exploding in my brain or my hormones revving up. Emily licks her neat pink lips with her neat pink tongue. It slides back into her mouth like a frightened creature. Everything about her screams SEX. Every nerve in my body longs to touch her, to protect her, keep her safe but right now I can’t even look after myself. Emily picks up the plastic bag she’d dumped on the floor and empties it out on the bed; the usual cards, comics, and chocolates — pity I can’t eat them. I riffle through the goodies, smiling as I read the names on the cards. “And this,” she says, picking up the brown paper bag, “is something I made.” She pulls out a purple and yellow striped beanie and holds it out, her enormous blue eyes locked onto mine, anxious for my approval. I reach out for the beanie and our fingers touch, shock zapping through me like static discharge. “Do you like it?” “Oh, yes,” I say, breathlessly, “I love it.” Do I? It doesn’t matter whether I do or not, Emily had made it, for me, so naturally it’s the most wonderful beanie in the whole wide world. Emily helps me to put it on, pulling it down over my almost bald head, the wool tickling my scalp. She smiles. “It suits you.” She looks away. “I didn’t know what colour to make it so I chose my favourite colours.” She looks at me again with those misty blue eyes, her soul shining out like a full moon in the night sky. “You do like it, don’t you?” I give her what I hope is my sincerest smile; “I love it. I can’t believe you made it … for me.” Oh, I’m a smooth one. This is exactly what she wants to hear. “Gran taught me how to crochet last year but so far I’ve only made squares. She sews them together into blankets for homeless people. When I heard you’d had your head shaved …” she breaks off and sighs, a deep sigh that sucks the heart out of my chest.
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She turns her head, her tiny fingers pleating the edge of the blanket. “You used to have such beautiful hair, so thick and shiny. I’m sure it will grow back. Anyway, I asked Gran if she’d teach me how to make a beanie. It’s in double crochet so it’ll keep your head warm.” “So, you think my hair’s beautiful, do you?” Emily turns to face me, her cheeks a soft, dusky pink. I smile and pat the beanie; vowing I’ll never take it off. Except in the shower, of course. Not until my beautiful, thick, shiny hair has grown back. Emily goes back to pleating the blanket. “It was hard at first, until I worked out how to do it. The worst bit was trying to keep the top flat. I had to unpick it several times because it went all pointy. Would’ve been all right if you were a cone head.” We laugh and I rub the top of my head. “It might’ve fitted, my head’s kind of pointy. At least I know what I’ll look like when I’m a little old man.” Emily smiles and something shifts in my chest, as if a switch has been flicked on somewhere under my ribs. “I’ve written you a poem too.” Emily pulls a piece of paper out of her pocket. She holds it out to me but when I reach out to take it she pulls it back. She won’t meet my eyes. “I don’t want you to read it just yet.” She raises her eyes, her little face anxious. “Promise me you won’t read it until I’ve gone?” “Promise.” Emily hands over the slip of paper like an anxious parent leaving their firstborn for the first time. I grip it tightly, nothing will make me give it back. She sighs; her chest rising and falling. My eyes follow every movement. Smiling, Emily stands up and pushes the chair against the wall. I clamp my lips shut in case she wants to kiss me again but this time she kisses the tips of her fingers and brushes them against my cheek; I feel like I’m on fire. “See you later, Sam.” “Sure, drop in anytime you’re passing.” Shut up, I tell myself. “Thanks for coming,” I add, remembering my manners. Emily smiles another earth-shattering, heart-stopping smile.
I wait a few minutes to make she isn’t coming back. Then I unfold the paper.
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Chapter 29 Sam’s wearing a new beanie. There’s also a huge display of flowers — the kind you see in hotel lobbies — covering the top of his locker. “Who sent these?” “I thought you did.” Sam says but that cheeky grin of his gives him away. I put on my serious face and Sam “fesses up. “Adam sent them,” Sam says, looking puzzled, “Hannah said it’s okay for guys to send flowers to other guys … if they’re sick or something.” “’Course it is,” I reply, wondering why I hadn’t thought of buying Sam flowers, “it’s very kind of him.” “Yeah, he’s a nice guy,” Sam says, giving me a strange look, “I think he likes you.” “Why d’ya think that?” I ask, hoping Sam doesn’t notice my reddening cheeks. “He keeps asking about you. I’m sure he only comes here ’cos he’s hoping to see you.” I toss my head and assume what I hope is a model-like pose, and say in my huskiest voice: “It’s good to know I’ve still got what it takes.” Sam grins. “It’s be cool if he does fancy you.” “Why?” Sam gives me his how-can-you-be-so-stupid-and-still-manage-to-breathe look. “Don’t you know who he is?” I shake my head. “Adam Schell.” Sam beams at me as if he’s just handed me a prize. A bell starts ringing in the recesses of my mind. It’s no good; I still can’t join up the dots. “The Adam Schell … the one who owns Extreme Tektronics. Y'know? ‘ET’.” I’m gobsmacked; there are at least five ET shops in Canberra and even more in Melbourne and Sydney. I bet they make serious money. “Besides,” Sam adds, “I like him.” I hope it’s Sam’s approval rather than my mercenary streak that sways me, or perhaps it’s the flowers, whatever, I decide that the next time Adam asks me out, I’ll say yes. I soon find out why Sam’s wearing such a colourful beanie when he tells me about Emily’s visit. He pretends to be cool about it and I pretend not to notice his crimson cheeks. I do notice a sheet of pink writing paper on his locker. I try to read it upside down but I’m not very good at it. Sam catches me looking; he picks it up and puts it face down on his chest. I raise my eyebrows and Sam raises his. I raise mine higher and he does the same. The game ends with us both laughing.
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“It’s a poem,” Sam says when we’ve stopped laughing, “Emily wrote it … for me.” He’s all seriousness now, his cheeks hot enough to toast marshmallows. I nod my head knowingly; it drives Sam mad when I do that. He holds out the sheet. “You can read it if you like.” “It’s okay. I won’t read it if you don’t want me to.” “I want you to read it.” “Aloud?” Sam thinks about it then shakes his head. I read the poem in silence.
A friend like Sam by Emily Dawson I’m glad I have a friend like Sam He never lets me down. He’s by my side when things go bad I’m never on my own.
When I need someone who’s big and strong Sam’s the one I call. He makes me laugh, he makes me smile He’s the bestest friend of all.
I finish reading and meet Sam’s eyes; they’re shining with newborn tears. “Why, Mum? Why me?” I can’t speak. My insides are being ripped out through my throat. Sam rubs his eyes and turns onto his side, his back towards me. I climb on the bed and wrap my arms around him. “I don’t know, Sam, that’s the way it goes. Bad things happen to good people. It’s not fucking fair.” Sam gasps at my use of that word but he doesn’t move. I lie next to him until he’s asleep then I slip out. I have to go home to feed Lady and take her for a walk. I’m walking through the darkening car park, thinking how wise the hospital administrators were to spend money on vital equipment rather than outdoor lighting, when I hear footsteps. I struggle to remember what I learned in my one-day self-defence course. I decide I’m fairly safe; there are plenty of people about. I grip my car keys, pointy bit sticking out between my fingers like a weapon. I reach my car and look around, remembering not to unlock the doors before I’ve checked that the coast is clear in case my would-be attacker bundles me in the car. The footsteps are right behind me. I swivel round, key extended. It’s Adam. All that adrenaline has to go somewhere so I let him have it. “Are you following me?” The smile on his face melts like butter in a hot pan. I almost feel sorry for him.
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“Well?” I jab the key at him. He doesn’t look scared, just bewildered. “No, not really. I mean, I was on my way to see Sam and I saw you coming out so I thought I’d … well, yeah, I guess I am following you.” “Why?” “To see if you’ve changed your mind.” I remember the flowers; I ought to thank him. “Why are you doing this? Sending Sam flowers? Asking me out? What do you want?” A shadow flickers across his face. I’m glad it’s growing dark so he can’t see me blush. I don’t know what to say so I stand there like a statue. A freezing statue. It’s cold and windy and I badly want to be inside my car with the heater on. The silence lasts too long. Adam holds up his hands. “I give up. I like you, Maggie, and Sam, that’s all. I’d like to get to know you better. At least have dinner but I guess you don’t want to.” He drops his arms and turns to go. “Wait.” He half turns towards me. I take a long, deep breath. “If you still want ….” I try again, this time with a smile: “Are you doing anything on Saturday night?” “No, why?” “Would you like to buy me dinner?” Adam scratches his head, a bemused look on his face. Now I do feel sorry for him. Then he smiles. “Yeah, great. I’ll book somewhere nice,” and before I can say anything else he’s gone. I’m glad I’m on my own; I can feel this stupid smile taking over my face.
I make it home without bursting into song, take Lady for a stately thirty-minute walk, fill her dish with kibble, top up her water bowl and shut her in the family room. I’m halfway back to the hospital before I realise I’m still grinning. The grin had faded by the time I reach the hospital. My mobile rings as I pull into the car park. It’s Mum, calling to say she left work early and has driven down to see Sam. They’re playing chess and arguing about the rules of the game, asking Hannah to adjudicate. This means I don’t have to hurry. I decide to call in at the hospital café and treat myself to something gooey.
I’m at a table near the door sipping iced chocolate. Iced chocolate? Why hadn’t I ordered a skinny 'cino? Or a decaf latte with soy? I scoop up a great big dollop of whipped cream and
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open wide … sod the diet. I don’t know why I bother. I look at the couple near the window. Jade’s stirring her drink – probably herbal tea – while Adam takes a sip of his coffee. They look a typical trendy young couple, the sort to be seen in any number of trendy little cafés. Except this isn’t a trendy café: this is the one near the reception area at Canberra Hospital. I sneak another look and wish I hadn’t; he’s holding her hand. Good, he’s let go. Now, what’s she doing? She’s writing something, probably her phone number. There’s something about her movements that reminds me of a spider spinning its web. There are some parallels between human and spider behaviours, the predatory nature of the females and their silky smooth way of trapping their prey. I swallow the lump in my throat. Come on, Jade, hurry up and go. But what will I do when she’s gone? I can’t see Sam ’cos Adam will be there. A wave of anger hits me. Why should he stop me from seeing my son? I feel sick. The table starts to tilt and I imagine myself falling, falling. I grab onto the table to keep myself upright. Sweat beads my forehead but my pulse is steadier. I take a deep breath and try to relax. My head’s spinning. I can’t make sense of Adam’s behaviour. I feel betrayed, and it hurts. Strange cause I should be used to it by now, especially after the last time. Joel and I had four years together. Four years. Then he started working late, something he rarely did. Then it was: “This woman at work’s moving house this weekend. A few of us said we’d help. You don’t mind, do you? Her family are in Queensland.” How could I object? There was nothing sneaky about him; he told me when he had lunch or coffee or after work drinks. One Friday he asked if wanted to go for drinks with him and a few colleagues. I was a few minutes late and “happy hour” had almost ended. The bar was crowded but I soon spotted Joel. He ordered my drink and I carried it to a nearby table while he juggled the other glasses. He introduced me to his work mates, including Sandy. It didn’t take long to work out I was on the back foot in the looks department. She was taller, younger, skinnier, a mass of thick, chestnut hair; she was a clear winner. “Where do you work, Maggie?” she asked, but didn’t give me time to respond. “Joel’s always talking about you — and Sam. It must be difficult bringing up a child on your own. I’d hate to be a single mother.” She made it sound like it was only one step better than being a prostitute. My fingers itched to wipe that smirk off her pretty face. “That’s what happens when you’re a widow. You do the best you can.” That shut her up.
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I listened for conversational clues, something to confirm my suspicions about them, but there was nothing. Once, though, I caught them looking at each other and there was a spark, a look that signals sexual chemistry. It could’ve been my imagination.
I stir my drink and take another sip. The ice cream has melted, it’s sickly sweet. I take another peep at Adam and Jade. They’re still talking, heads close, oblivious. I know what it’s like to be invisible, it’s like the time I went with Joel and some of his friends — including Sandy — to see a play, a comedy. One of their work mates had a minor role. I’d taken extra care to look good. I had my hair done at lunchtime and got my eyelashes tinted. The beautician said they’re hard to tint because they’re so pale they’re almost invisible, I said that’s why I get them dyed. I went home an hour early to get ready. Wore my slinky black skirt and a silver-grey lacy top that hid my tummy and showed off my cleavage. I needn’t have bothered; Joel barely looked at me. When we arrived he headed for his friends at the bar and returned with three glasses of white wine. He handed me a glass without speaking. Joel didn’t say a word during the first half. He sat with his arms folded, laughing at the funny bits. At the end of the first act he stood up and was heading for the bar before he turned to see if I was following. I waved and he kept on walking. Again he bought three glasses of white wine. I sipped my drink while Joel chatted with his work mates, somehow managing to stand next to Sandy. They were laughing. At the end of the interval I slunk back to my seat. When the show finished Joel and his friends headed for a nearby bar. I was one of the last to arrive so I ended up in the middle of a table with Joel next to Sandy at the far end. At least I got to choose what I wanted to drink. It was raining when we left the bar. Joel gallantly offered to bring the car closer so I wouldn’t get wet. I waited in the doorway and was surprised when Sandy came and stood next to me, she said Joel had offered her a lift. Was that okay? How could I refuse? The following day I poured out my heart to Rhonda. She did her best to cheer me up. “Sure you’re not imagining it?” I shook my head. Rhonda sighed. “I didn’t think Joel was like that.” I snorted. “He’s a man, isn’t he? They’re all like that.” “He’s a fool, that’s all I can say.” Rhonda looked me up and down. “I can’t see why he’d want another woman when he’s got you.” The next time Joel rang to say he was working late, I decided to test him. I waited until Sam was asleep then I dialled Sandy’s number. While I waited for her to pick up, I dialled
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Joel’s mobile number on my mobile. When Sandy answered her phone I gave her no time to say my name: “It’s me, Maggie, I was wondering if you’d like to come for dinner on Saturday.” During the few moments of silence that followed I hit the “call” button on my mobile and heard it ring in the background. Seconds later I heard Joel’s voice.
Sam was asleep by the time Joel came home but our raised voices woke him. He crept into the family room, rubbing his eyes, anxious to help. Joel moved out that night. Sam and I curled up together in my bed like puppies and I cried myself to sleep. Joel came round at the weekend with a van and a group of friends to pick up the rest of his things. I knew the men he brought with him. I liked them. Now they avoid me.
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Chapter 30 Jade and Adam, sitting at a far table, are unaware that Maggie is watching them. They’re lost in the moment, but not the moment of Maggie’s imaginings. Their conversation is going along different lines. They’d started talking about Sam and moved on to talk about Jade, how glad she is that she’s discovered Alex’s true character. Now she’s free to look for someone more … mature. She lowers her eyes and looks at Adam through her long lashes, a winsome look that has set many a man’s heart aquiver. Adam pretends not to notice. He’s had his share of women fluttering their eyelashes at him. He’s not unaware of his good looks and knows that some women are genuinely attracted to him. Others, he suspects, are equally attracted to his bank balance. He looks at Jade speculatively. She’s young and pretty, looking for a good time. And who can blame her? Adam, however, has grown tired of short-term dalliances and is looking for something more serious, or rather, someone more serious. Jade gradually realises he’s talking about Maggie, grinning like a fourteen-year-old going out on his first date. “We’re going out for dinner on Saturday. Any ideas where to go?” “What about “The Blackboard”? It’s a bit pricey but it’s very trendy and they make great cocktails. There’s one called choc-crumble and it’s to die for.” Jade stops, perhaps aware this isn’t an appropriate thing to say, or maybe she just doesn’t know what to say next. She flashes her eyelashes at Adam one last time. “If you go there say ‘hi’ to Jules, he’s the chef, he’s a sweetie. Mention my name, he’ll look after you. Look, I’ll write it down.” She fishes a pen and piece of paper out of her bag, writes down the details and hands it to Adam. “Thanks.” Adam takes the scrap of paper and slides it into his pocket. He drains his coffee, pushes back the chair and stands up. “I’d better go. I’ve brought a few things for Sam, something to cheer him up.” He nods towards a bag bearing the ET logo, a shop specialising in high tech gadgets. Jade doesn’t know Adam owns the company. Jade frowns. “Bet he’ll enjoy them more than the books I’ve got him.” “You don’t need to buy him anything, Jade, he enjoys your visits.” Adam says with a smile. He strides off, swinging the plastic bag. Although she can’t see his face, Jade knows he’s still smiling.
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Jade doesn’t look up; she’s too busy feeling sorry for herself. If she had she would have noticed a lingering stare from a good-looking intern on his way through the reception area. But she doesn’t look up and the young man hurries on.
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Chapter 31 Brett and Josh are lying on their sides with me squashed in the middle of the narrow bed. “See what you mean. It’s weird being so high up.” Brett slides off the bed and flings himself into the visitor’s chair, laughing as the vinyl covering sets off a volley of farts. “That’s so random,” Josh says, swinging himself round on the bed to face me, his feet curled under him in a futile effort to keep his worn-out sneakers off the blankets. “Did Ms Connor sit on this chair?” Brett asks. I nod. Ms Connor is our roll call teacher. Young and fit, all the boys and even some of the girls are in lust with her. “Bet she was dead embarrassed when it farted.” He’s almost right. The chair did make a noise when Ms Connor sat on it. She just grinned, though. Brett picks up a comic, riffles through the pages and tosses it back on the bed. “I’ve read it,” he says. “That was quick.” I say. “Not just then, you idiot, ages ago.” Josh says, bending down to pick up something off the floor. “Hey, what’s this?” he asks, holding up a red nose. “I take it that’s a rhetorical question?” I ask, feeling proud ’cos I remember the word “rhetorical”. “A what question?” parries Josh, his face screwed up like a newborn puppy. “Never mind.” Josh shrugs. “Don’t get all thingy. Just answer my whatever-you-call-it question, what’s this red nose for?” “Sister Sassy gave it to me.” “Sister who?” “She’s not a real nurse,” I explain, “calls herself Sister Sassy. There’s a few of them; they come in every week or so to cheer us up.” “What do they do?” “Like that red nose,” I say, pointing to the one in Josh’s hand. “Said I should stick it on when the doctor comes, see how long it takes him to notice.” Brett laughs. “What happened?” “He laughed. Next time he came in he was wearing one too.” “That’s soooo cool,” Josh says, sticking the red nose on top of his.
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“What else do they do?” Brett asks. “They held a wheelchair race, nurses against patients.” I reply, remembering an older girl, about 15 or 16, who refused to take part. She’s weird looking with tufts of red hair and skin like buttered popcorn. A doctor tried to get her to race him and he set off, skittering down the corridor, but she wouldn’t join in. The only time she laughed was when he bumped into a wall and fell out. “Who won?” “The patients, of course.” I pause, remembering another Sister Sassy trick, “She gave me a specimen container …” “A what?” Josh asks, taking off the false nose. “It’s a screw top jar … for urine and poo and stuff.” “Gross.” “Anyway, she filled it with diluted apple juice. It looked like the real thing. Said next time a nurse asks for a sample I should hold up that one but before I give it to her I unscrew the top and drink it.” “That’s mega gross,” Brett says, laughing, “hope you don’t get them mixed up.” I throw a comic at him. It misses and catches Josh on the side of his head. He tosses it on the bed before returning to his task of examining the dusty fruit on my locker. He opens the cupboard and inspects the contents, rummaging through my pyjamas and toiletries. “What are you doing?’ I ask. “Looking for something,’ he replies, as if that explains everything, and continues searching, scattering books and games, pens and coloured pencils all over the floor. Grumbling, he stuffs everything back. “Is this all there is? I thought people would’ve brought you chocolates and stuff.” “What’s the point?” I say, “I can’t eat it … I give it to the nurses or other kids.” Josh looks horrified. “Next time someone brings some in save it for us. We’re your mates.” He shakes his head, seriously troubled. “It doesn’t seem fair. Why bother getting sick if you can’t pig out?” His face brightens. “At least you don’t have to go to school.” “I don’t mind school.” “Now I know you really are sick … if you did, mind I mean, if you really, really hated school, you wouldn’t have to go while you’re in here, would you?” I look at my two friends. “I’m not a nerd or anything … but I don’t mind school.”
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“We know what it is, don’t we Josh? It’s that operation, they transplanted some geek’s brain, or maybe they shot you full of electricity like Frankenstein.” Brett holds his arms out and scrunches up his neck in a parody of the monster. Josh has lost interest and is looking around the room, taking in the gaudy curtains and bright paintwork. If ever a colour scheme screamed cheerful, this is it. Still, it isn’t bad for a hospital. At least I don’t have to share with anyone gross. I remember when Mum took me to see Grandpa when he had pneumonia. It was awful. He was in a room with three other old men coughing their guts up. Disgusting. Time to think of something else. “There’s a school here.” I say. “A school? Where?” Josh looks around as if I’m hiding it somewhere in the room. “It’s round the corner.” I say, waving my arm in the general direction. “There’s a separate room. And a proper teacher, Mrs Kelly, and Mrs McMadden, the teacher’s aid.” I pick up a corner of the sheet and start to roll it between my fingers. I’m getting tired. “Most of the kids are younger than me but there’s a couple older. One boy’s about fourteen.” “What’s wrong with him?” Brett asks while Josh busily chews his fingernails. “I dunno. One of the nurses said he got a virus or something, now he can’t move or talk, he just lies there. He’s got this beeper thing on his wheelchair and he presses it when he wants something. We can sort of talk, at least I talk and he listens and nods his head. The nurses keep coming in to wipe his hands with alcohol, in case he gets an infection. Hannah said a doctor at a hospital in Queensland got an infection and lost the use of his arm. It was six months before he could go back to work. “Whenever the nurses wipe the boy’s hand they say the alcohol is turning them into alcoholics and he laughs. He must’ve heard it hundreds of times. I tell him jokes too and he laughs like mad. They’re not that funny,” I admit modestly, “and I read to him and show him what I’m doing and stuff.” I break off, staring at my friends, daring them to challenge me. I don’t tell them that playing chess with a kid who can’t speak is better than being alone with your thoughts. Most of the kids are as sick as me — some worse. Like the nine-year-old girl who had cancer in one leg and had it cut off. Most days she just sits there, tears running down her face. I told her she’s lucky ’cos they can cut off her leg but they can’t cut off my head. She didn’t laugh. “It’s better than lying in bed all day.” I say. “Do you get homework?” asks Brett.
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“’Course we do.” I declare proudly, “Told you Ms Connor came to see me and Mrs Kelly, they’ve worked out a special program so I can keep up.” “Bummer,” says Josh. I look at him: “I don’t want to take over from you as class dummy when I get out of here.” Josh gives me the finger. “Still, you don’t have to go every day, do you? Like some days, like, you’d be too sick, or having chemo — whatever.” Brett shuffles in his chair, setting off another volley of farts. “Can it, dude.” Josh lowers his head. “I’m trying to cheer him up.” “You’re not doing a very good job.” “Sorry,” Josh mumbles. “That’s okay,” I say. Brett fills in the awkward silence with another loud fart as he picks up a plastic bag off the floor and dumps it on the bed. “Some of the guys from school sent these.” “Thanks,” I say, rummaging through the contents: a handful of cards and letters, a T-shirt showing Stan from “South Park” exploring the insides of his nostril; a couple of CDs; a blue and white “Trucker Style” cap featuring Stan, Cartman, Josh and Ike; and a couple of stickers, one bearing the slogan Respect My Authority and the other I Have No Idea What’s Going On. There are also two lumpy-looking hand-knitted beanies — one red and blue stripes, the other green and gold. I pick up the second one and stretch it over my head. It’s big enough to go over the one Emily made. “Barf,” says Josh. “Shut up,” says Brett. “Shut up yourself.” Brett ignores him and holds up the red and blue beanie, “Natalie and Allegro made ’em. Some of the other girls are making them too but they’re not finished.” Josh points to the beanie I’m wearing. “Did your mum make that?” “No, Emily made it.” Brett and Josh look at each other. I feel myself blushing and slide further under the covers. “Oooooo. Everyone knows you’ve got the hots for her.” “She’s just a friend.” I can feel my face turning a deep shade of crimson. “Yeah, right.” Josh’s leer almost splits his moon-shaped face in half. “She’s hot.”
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I sit up, smiling, “She’s seriously hot.” “She’s awesome,” adds Josh, “just wait till you’re out of here, you’ll be pashing all the time.” “As if.” I sigh, remembering the feel of Emily’s soft cool fingers as they brushed my cheek when she eased the beanie onto my head. Josh winks and starts jiggling around as if he’s got ants in his pants. “You’re one lucky dude.” Brett glares at him. “What?” “Nothing.” “What’s up? Why are you looking at me like that?” “’Cos you keep hopping around like a constipated toad.” Brett glances at me but I pretend to be busy flicking through the stickers. He turns to Josh, giving him a “keep-your-gob-shut” look. “What?” Brett sighs. “You’re such a loser.” I stop flipping through the stickers. “C’mon guys, stop fighting, it’s okay.” Brett jumps in before Josh can draw breath. “Well there’s no way anyone would fancy you, fart face.” Josh can’t resist a challenge: “Look who’s talking, snot gobbler.” Brett pulls a face and flaps his arms: “Talk to the elbow ’cos the face ain’t listening and the hand don’t care.” Brett holds up a hand and I give him a high five. “Respect, man.” Josh doesn’t want to be left out so he launches into a rap song he’s just learned. He has a good voice. Not only can he sing, he can move, and he bops around to the beat. Brett joins in and the pair of them careen around the room until Josh trips, bangs his knee on my locker, and collapses in a heap on the floor, laughing. When we’ve finished laughing, Josh picks up the Stan T-shirt. “C’mon, Sam, try it on.” I unclip myself from the drip and they help me out of my old T-shirt and slip the new one over my head. When they’ve straightened it I lean back on my pillows and hook myself up again. “I know,” says Brett, “let’s decorate the room.”
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He rips open a packet of “South Park” stickers and sticks a couple on the stand holding my drip. Within seconds Stan’s image decorates the table, locker, oxygen tank, bed head and the chart at the end of my bed. Josh digs out a length of string and a grubby strip of adhesive from his jacket pocket and ties a Stan doll to the curtain rail. I feel exhausted just watching them work. Brett sticks another “South Park” poster on the wall over my bed and the last one on the side of the locker. When they finish I look at what my friends have done: “That’s fully sick.”
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Chapter 32 I’m late, couldn’t find a park. I’ve spent the whole day feeling sorry for myself which made me feel worse because Sam’s the one who should feel sorry for himself and he seems to be coping better than me. I keep thinking about what Rhonda said about anger and acceptance and whether there might be something in it. Maybe I ought to ask her about that bloody book. Not yet, though. I need some distance before I can face it — or her. No time to wait for the lift. I run up the stairs and I arrive in Sam’s room feeling hot — and guilty. Sam’s reading a comic book, a broad grin on his face. I hand him a package wrapped in butchers’ paper bearing the signatures of his classmates. “This’ll wipe that smile off your face.” He takes the parcel, weighing its contents, squashes it and laughs. “Not more beanies.” “I’m afraid so, but according to this month’s Cosmo this season’s trendy young man can’t have too many beanies.” “You’re making that up.” I lower my eyes: “Yes, your honour. I confess. I made it up.” Sam smiles. “Still,” I continue, waving a hand over the new arrivals, “it’s kind of everyone to knit you all these beanies.” “I guess,’ says Sam/ “Have you ever wondered how many sheep it takes to make a beanie?” I ask. Sam shakes his head, “How many?” “None.” I say, trying to keep my face straight. “None?” Sam says, looking puzzled, “why’s that?” “Because sheep can’t knit.” Sam laughs joyously as he rips open the wrapping paper and three kitted hats tumble out. There’s another, smaller parcel. He opens it; yet another beanie, this one with Stan’s features embroidered on it. “Who made this?” “Someone from work.” I try not to stare as Sam takes off Emily’s creation. His head isn’t totally bald; a dozen or so fine blonde hairs cling tenaciously around the edges. Some days he has to wear a cotton skull cap under his beanie because the wool irritates his scalp. Sam pulls on his new beanie, tucking in stray wisps of hair. I pull a hand mirror from my bag and hold it up. Sam turns his head, admiring himself. “It’s cool.”
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“Wish I could knit,” I say, “I should be knitting you beanies.” Sam looks at me, frowning, “I can’t imagine you knitting.” “I can knit, I’m not very good but I know how to do it. I knitted you a blue bootie when you were born.” “Just the one?” “Yes, well, it took three balls of wool. It’s probably still too big for you.” Sam laughs, “Don’t worry, Mum,” he says, holding up a handful of his latest beanies, “I’ve got more than enough.” “That’s not the point. I should be doing something useful.” “You can’t be good at everything.” “True, but I’d like to be good at something.” “You are good at something.” “What’s that?” “Being my mum.” I give him a quick glance then I have to look away, tears threatening to spill out. I notice Sam has stuck a magnetic memo board to the side of his bed, it holds a note pad exhorting you to list “100 Things To Do Before You Die”. Sam’s written just three things: “catch cancer”, “have millions of needles”, and “vomit, vomit, and vomit some more.” He sees me reading the list. “I wrote that when I was feeling miserable.” “Are you miserable now?” Sam shrugs, “Not right now, it sort of comes and goes. Sometimes it feels like … like what’s the point in doing anything. Other times I think I should make the most of things. Like Gran says, ‘count your blessings.’ Maybe I’ll do another list.” “Anything I can do?” I ask. Sam shrugs and screws up his face, mouth down turned, bottom lip sticking out. “I’m all out of eye of newt and bat’s brains,” I said, “and I’ve broken my last magic wand.” Sam sighs, a smile stretching lazily across his tired face. I stroke his hands. “I wish I could be like that boy wizard and make it all disappear.” “Wizards are no good,” Sam says, “don’t you know anything, Mum?” He grins, his eyes sparkling. My insides flip over and try to fight their way out through my throat. I take a deep breath. “Sam…”
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There must’ve been something about my tone that gave me away. Sam stops smiling; his eyes growing wider like a frightened rabbit’s. “What?” he asks. I swallow and force myself to maintain eye contact. “Well, um, remember what you said about Adam … how you thought he … well, you thought he might … like me.” I can’t believe I’m blushing. Sam’s shoulders relax and his face brightens. “Yeah,” he says, stretching the word out like a yawn. “I’ve agreed to have dinner with him … on Saturday.” Sam’s face lights up. “Yeah! Fantastic.” He’s practically bouncing on the bed. “Don’t get too excited, it’s just dinner.” “I can dream can’t I? I could use a rich stepfather.” I pretend to glare at him but he ignores me. At least he’s stopped worrying about what’s happening to him. That’s one of the downsides of adolescence, everything’s all about “me”. I decide it’s time to change the subject. “What’s this?” I ask, picking up a package that had bounced its way to the edge of the bed. Sam unwraps it to reveal a doll about 25 centimetres tall which, thanks to Sam’s painstaking descriptions of all things South Park related, I recognise as Shelly, Stan’s older sister. “You don’t have this one,” I say, and, as instructed by the label around its neck, I squeeze the doll’s tummy. It emits a squeal and says: “You’re a turd. You’re the Turdman of Alcatraz”. I squeeze again: “Go away turd.” The third squeeze produces: “Shut up turd.” Charming. “It’s okay Mum.” “What’s okay?” “You know.” “If I knew I wouldn’t be asking.” “This thing in my head. I know it’s bad,” Sam points to his journal. “Hannah wrote it down for me …at least she knows how to spell it.” He smiles, “She said it’s like a worm in an apple. All nice and shiny on the outside, like the witch’s apple in Snow White, but rotten inside.” I nod, afraid to speak in case my voice lets me down. Sam goes on: “It’s like having an alien inside my head.” He grins. “Maybe it’s not cancer, maybe …” his voice becomes robotic, “maybe I’ve been taken over by a creature from o-u-t-e-r s-p-a-c-e.”
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Oh, Sam. I force myself to maintain eye contact. It’s not easy. Today’s Sam’s eyes are clear and bright, so young and full of life; they don’t belong in that old-man’s face. Sam’s the first to lower his eyes. He picks up his Stan doll and squeezes its hand. As if possessed, the doll begins to twitch. Eyes flashing, it bursts out: “Dude, this is pretty fucked-up right here.”
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Chapter 33 Adam’s right; it is a nice restaurant. I don’t know why I agreed to come. I told him I’d seen him tête-à-tête with Jade, exchanging slips of paper. He laughed and said she was giving him the name of this restaurant. He asked if I was jealous. No, I said, of course not. Not much anyway. I open the menu, one of those large, leather-bound jobs that need two hands to hold them. I try not to look too shocked as I skim through the prices. I’m glad I’d agreed to let him pay; you could feed a family of four for a week for the price of an entrée. I put the menu down. “What do you fancy?” I ask. What a stupid thing to say. Adam smiles and I look away. I feel myself blushing and look around the restaurant. It’s bright and spacious with seductive lighting and the barely audible hum of background conversations. Not like the cheap and cheerful places I usually go to, where you have to shout over the chatter and the clatter of crockery and scraping chairs, not to mention the blare of muzak. Here everything is muted, including the music, and there’s plenty of space between the tables, for confidential business deals or an intimate conversation. There aren’t many empty tables. Mainly couples, just one table of suits talking louder than the rest of the diners. Perhaps they’re talking at normal volume, it just seems loud in this otherwise hushed environment. I examine the other couples, wondering which ones are in a relationship, which are having affairs. It doesn’t look the sort of place to come if you’re having an illicit liaison — too public. A waiter shows a couple to a nearby table, pulling out chairs and holding the woman’s brightly coloured wrap and tiny evening bag. Both look expensive. She’s slim, fair-haired, in her early to mid-forties, and wearing a skimpy red dress that probably cost more than I earn in a week. He’s older, tall and slim with greying hair. He must’ve realised I’m watching because he looks at me. I turn my head. I’ve seen him before. Where? Then I remember; he’s one of the specialists at the hospital. I hope he hadn’t recognised me. But why does it matter? I’m allowed a night out. A waiter trots over and he and Adam discuss the choice of entrée and wine. Adam looks at me and I nod, content to let him decide what I want to eat. I don’t care as long as I don’t have to cook it — or pay for it. “I hope you like what I ordered.” “Don’t worry, I’m so hungry I’ll eat anything.” “Good,” Adam says, “I like a woman with a healthy appetite. I wasn’t sure if you had any food allergies.”
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“Nothing like that.” I pause, then add: “I don’t like chocolate coated aniseed but I can eat it if I’m desperate.” Adam laughs. The wine arrives and the waiter goes through the ritual of pouring out a few drops for Adam to sample before filling our glasses. When the waiter has gone I say: “My dad said that years ago men tasted the wine first in case it was poisoned.” Adam laughs. “He was probably right, I’ve tasted some awful wine it could well have been poisoned.” The waiter brings out our entrées: tiny, wafer thin pancakes containing bite-sized pieces of roasted duck and melon on wilted baby spinach leaves. The plate is enormous and the servings small. I could’ve wolfed mine down in one go but I take my time, savouring every tiny forkful. It’s all very civilised, the way life should be. I sip my wine instead of sculling it. It’s delicious, rich and full-bodied. I could get used to this. As soon as we finish eating, the waiter takes our plates. Then the wine waiter reappears and tops up our glasses, emptying the bottle in my glass. He looks at Adam who nods. The waiter takes the empty bottle, returning minutes later with another bottle. Is he trying to get me drunk? I try to think of something to say, remembering my mother’s warning about religion, politics and sex. Definitely not sex. Gardening’s a safe topic. And the weather, can’t go wrong with either of those topics. I decide to combine the two. “I had to get a tree surgeon in last week. One of my gum trees turned up its toes. I thought it was the dry weather but apparently it was some sort of insect that ringbarks the tree. By the time you notice something’s wrong it’s too late. The tree guy took most of the wood and mulched the rest. I’m going to spread it around the other plants.” “Shame about the tree. At least you can cut down on watering.” “This water shortage is no good for my garden. I don’t mind, though, as long as there’s enough to drink.” I take a tiny sip of wine; my glass is almost empty. “A man I work with says that in a few years time we’ll all be drinking recycled water. He said it’ll be like drinking each other’s urine. Sounds awful. I’d hate to drink someone’s urine. What about you?” Adam laughs, “I don’t know,” he says, looking thoughtful, ‘depends how well I know them.” Luckily the waiter chooses that moment to deliver the main meal — beef cheeks, they’re almost as red as mine. Another waiter arrives to serve the vegetables. I sit back and allow myself to be waited on.
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For the next few minutes there’s silence, except for the sound of me chewing. Dessert is a delicately woven chocolate basket topped with whipped cream and strawberries. Low cal? I don’t think so. I pick up the long handled spoon and scoop up an elegant mouthful, eyes closed as I savour the combination of textures, enjoying the rich chocolaty creaminess. If Sam were here he’d wolf his down in under thirty seconds and then eat mine. When I open my eyes I find Adam watching me. He smiles. “Looks like you’re enjoying it.” I turn my head, embarrassed for being such a pig, angry with him for noticing. “It’s not bad,” I say, putting my spoon down, determined to deny myself another mouthful. That’ll show him. He laughs and I notice again his perfect white teeth. Mine are uneven and slightly off white after years of drinking black tea and cheap red wine. My dentist said I’m lucky, her word, because I have big, strong, teeth, although they are a bit yellowish. Oh, joy. To top it off the upper middle tooth is chipped, the result of a fall off Rhonda’s garage roof when I was nine. I smile, remembering the look on Rhonda’s face when she saw me fall. I wonder if she still feels guilty for daring me to climb up there? I glare at Adam’s dazzling white teeth. How dare he be so bloody perfect? I bet they’re the result of expensive dentistry. Adam loads his spoon and transfers the contents to his mouth. He knows I’m watching so he deliberately licks his spoon clean before scooping up another spoonful. “Aren’t you having any more?” “No.” He looks hurt and I feel guilty, but not for long. “What’s wrong? Don’t you like it? Is it this place?” “It’s lovely,” I say, “very classy, very posh.” I look at the starched white tablecloths, the sparkling silver and crystal glasses. The waiters scurrying around in their immaculate white shirts and black waistcoats, hoping for a generous tip. So elegant, so not me. I force myself to be gracious. “It’s very kind of you to bring me here.” “Kindness has nothing to do with it.” “Hasn’t it?” “I’m not that altruistic. Of course I feel sorry for what’s happened to you and Sam. I can’t imagine how tough it must be.” I stiffen. “I don’t need your sympathy.” Adam leans forward and picks up my hand.
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“Let me finish. What I’m trying to say, badly I know, is that I like you. I’d like to get to know you better.” His eyes hold mine. I can feel my cheeks grow hot. I lower my eyes and reclaim my hand. I can’t bear to look at him. “Why?” I ask finally. “Because you’re beautiful and funny and I feel different when I’m with you.” Adam breaks off; he’s blushing now. “I’m not beautiful.” “Yes you are,” Adam looks me in the eyes. I laugh. “You certainly know the right things to say.” Now for the tricky part: “Do you know how old I am?” “No idea. Fifty-seven? A hundred and two?” “Close, I’m thirty six, almost thirty seven.” I keep my eyes fixed on his. “Wow, you don’t look that old.” I punch him on the arm. “I’m not that old; it just seems old to a young thing like you.” “I’m not that young, thirty two, I’m almost thirty three.” “That makes me four years older than you.” “There’s nothing wrong with your maths.” I punch him again. “Four years is nothing,” he says, laughing. I laugh too, what else can I do? I glance around the room again, taking in the older couples with their heads bent over their plates as they shovel up their food, the younger ones holding hands across the table, sipping wine and picking at their food. Ah, young love. There’s something else I have to say. “I don’t think this is the right time for … whatever this is. Not with Sam …” “Sam brought us together. Perhaps this is meant to be.” “You’re mad,” I say. “Possibly … probably.” He leans closer and picks up both of my hands, turning them palm upwards. “Trying to read my future?” “I wish I could.” He raises my hands to his mouth, kissing the palm of each hand in turn before placing them gently back on the table. I look at my hands; I can feel the pressure of his lips. My insides are all squishy.
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Adam picks up his fork and shuffles bits of chocolate around on his plate. I don’t pretend to play with mine. “Come on, let’s go.” I follow Adam to the counter, waiting silently while he pays the bill. American Express, what else?
Adam reaches for my hand as we walk across the car park but I pull away, pretending to blow my nose. He opens the car door and I buckle myself in while he fiddles with the CD player, selecting something smoky and soulful. I yawn and glance at Adam to see if he’s noticed but he’s concentrating on driving. I settle back to enjoy the ride, breathing in the scent of real leather. I’ve never been in a Mercedes before. As we near the traffic lights just before the Hyatt Hotel Adam indicates left and heads for the lake. “Where’re we going?” Adam swings the car into the car park overlooking the lake and switches off the engine. I stare straight in front of me. I can see a beacon of light coming from the top of Parliament House. Must be still sitting. We sit without speaking for what seems like hours before Adam turns to face me, leaning closer. I draw back, squeezing as close as possible to the car door. I shiver and he puts his arm around me, drawing me towards him. I tuck my head under his chin, my face against his chest, breathing in his scent. He smells vaguely of sweat and expensive aftershave; an intoxicating combination. He feels strong and … manly. It seems a long time since anyone has held me like this. It’s so good.
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Chapter 34 “I don’t believe a word that woman says. She lives on sherry and cigarettes. The only thing she eats are onion sandwiches.” Mum’s on her soapbox again. I avoid eye contact and let her carry on. “Spends her summers sunbaking, rubbing herself all over with vinegar and cooking oil to get a tan. Like marinating a steak. Skin like a lizard. Nothing wrong with her, though. He’s the one riddled with cancer: skin, bowels, liver. He always wore a hat and long sleeves in the sun, and he’s never been a big drinker, just the odd glass of wine or beer to be sociable, and he’s never smoked, not if you don’t count passive smoking. It’s not that he’s a big eater, lives on cheese and fruit. Well, he’d have to, wouldn’t he? She never cooks. Poor bugger.” Mum laughs. “Know what he said the other day?” I shake my head, letting her words wash over me. “Said he’s stopped buying green bananas ’cos he might not be around when they turn yellow.” We’re in the lounge room. I’ve just got home from work. Mum’s taken over the couch, knitting bag on one side, newspapers on the other. I drop into the rocking chair; it creaks under my weight. Mum’s wearing her thoughtful look — she’s miles away. I could wave my hands in front of her face, stick out my tongue, jiggle a sack full of monkeys and she wouldn’t blink. “Mum.” I slide out of the rocker and touch her shoulder. She jumps as if I’ve jabbed her with a cattle prod. At least she’s back in the here and now. “Sorry,” she says, “where was I?” “You were talking about your neighbours.” “Was I? Oh well, couldn’t have been important.” She picks up her knitting. I can’t tell what it is but I’m glad to see it’s not a beanie. “Where’s Rhonda?” she asks, apropos of nothing. I turn as if expecting to find her standing behind me. “Rhonda?” “Yes, Rhonda, you know, she’s been your best friend since primary school.” “Oh, that Rhonda.” “Thanks goodness you remember, I thought you’d got dementia.” “Sometimes, Mother, you can be very funny.” “Seriously, where is she?” “I guess she’s still around. I haven’t seen her recently.”
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“You’ve not been fighting again, have you?” Trust my mother to send me back to the playground. “Not exactly; we’ve had a difference of opinion, that’s all.” “Oh Maggie, you shouldn’t be falling out with your friends at a time like this.” Without thinking I blurt out: “It’s not my fault.” At least I stop myself saying that she started it. “Do you want to talk about it?” Mum pushes the newspapers off the couch, they skid across the polished floor before coming to rest against the coffee table. “Sit here,” she says, patting the minute space next to her on the couch. “This is more comfortable than that old rocking chair you’re so fond of.” “Fond of it? I hate it. You forced me to take it when Grandma died, don’t you remember? You said it would be useful when I have a baby, said I could rock us both to sleep. Trouble was, I was still living in that tiny place, Dad had to take the front door off to get it inside. The only place it would fit was in the hallway. I used to call it my exercise chair ’cos I had to climb over it whenever I went past.” I glare at the chair now, daring it to defend itself. “I’ve lugged it around all these years and I still think it’s the ugliest, most uncomfortable chair I’ve ever sat in. And, in case you’re interested, I never, not once, sat in it when I was nursing Sam.” Mum smiles her beatific smile. I’m sure she doesn’t believe me. I breathe in and squash my somewhat ample posterior into the gap Mum has left for me on my couch. Luckily she shuffles up a bit more so I can breathe out. I tell her how Rhonda has been mean to me and that I don’t want to be her friend any more. I’m almost in tears by the time I finish. Mum pulls my head down onto her shoulder and pats my back; sometimes it’s good being a child. “Shhh,” she says, “it’s all right now.” She presses my face firmly against her neck, I can hardly breathe. I struggle to get away, gasping for air and eventually she lets go. I sit upright and take a few deep breaths, trying to regain my composure. Mum rubs her hands together making a dry, rustling, sound like autumn leaves. “Would you like me to talk to her?” “No thanks. I’m a big girl now,” I say, wishing it wasn’t true, “I can handle it.” I add, struggling to my feet. “You going to see Sam?” Mum asks. I nod, “As soon as I’ve changed.” I hurry into the bedroom. As I get dressed I wonder whether I should call in at Rhonda’s on the way to see Sam, or on the way home.
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By the time I’ve picked up Sam’s clean clothes and some comics I’ve made up my mind to see Sam first. Seconds later, after saying goodbye to Mum and climbing into the car, I change my mind again. Better get the Rhonda thing over first, otherwise I’ll be worrying about it instead of focussing on Sam. Bugger, bugger, bugger, I say aloud, as I head for Rhonda’s. I’m not looking forward to this meeting. Rhonda lives near the hospital, in Curtin. It used to be an ordinary suburb but, as she keeps reminding me, it’s now very upmarket and prices have gone up at least three hundred per cent since she and Gerard bought their house 17 years ago. Some people have all the luck. I smile, remembering the day when Sam had listened, open-mouthed, while Rhonda boasted how much the house was worth. “We’re sitting on a gold mine,” she said. On the way home Sam asked what she’d meant about sitting on a landmine. I laughed. Poor Sam, he thought I was laughing at him but he cheered up when I told him what was funny. Now, whenever he wants to get a rise out of me he just has to say “landmine” and it sets me off. I can’t work out why Rhonda’s house is worth as much as she claims. It’s a boring brick rectangle with a boring front lawn edged by a boring row of rose trees. There’s a boring paved entertaining area at the back, complete with a boring lemon tree, handy for Rhonda’s gin and tonics. Nothing special. Still, Rhonda does live well. The downside to Rhonda’s affluent lifestyle, as far as I can see, is that it includes living with Gerard. He’s a nice enough man, if you like that sort of thing. Tall and skinny with mousey hair, sticky-out teeth and a nose that could house a family of refugees. Rhonda opens the door. She looks tight-lipped, a hard look to achieve but she manages it well. She doesn’t invite me in. “Yes?” she snaps. She sounds like an election candidate being harangued by the opposition. Not a propitious start. “I’m on my way to see Sam,” I say brightly, “thought I’d call in to see how you are.” She sighs, like a wounded animal. “I’m all right, thank you.” She doesn’t ask how I am … or Sam. “I’m sorry I was such a grump the other day; my charkas must’ve been out of alignment.”
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Ronda continues to stare at me, po-faced, then her face cracks into the beginnings of a smile. She shrugs. “I guess I was insensitive, going on about grief. We all deal with things in different ways. Besides,” she adds, “you’ll probably be more interested when Sam’s dead.” I manage to control myself when she says that but my face must’ve given me away. “Sorry,” Rhonda says, “I’m not very good at this sort of thing … with sick people, you know.” I do know. She’s what my Gran called “a fair weather friend”, fun to be around when everything’s going well but no good in a crisis. I take a deep breath and speak in what sounds like my normal voice. “Thing is, I was wondering if you want to go for a drink after I’ve seen Sam?” What made me say that? I hadn’t thought about inviting her out, the words just leapt out my mouth. And now they’re out there, on their own. Rhonda sighs again, a long body shaking sigh, as if pulling it up from the toes of her neat little shoes. Then she smiles. “Sorry, I’m busy tonight. I’m free tomorrow though.” This is my cue: “Usual time, usual place? She nods. Then, perhaps remembering her manners, or as a final act of forgiveness, she says, “Come in for a minute?” “Thanks, but I’m going to see Sam.” “Of course,” she says, her voice several degrees warmer, “Give him my love.” “Sure.” She waits in the doorway until I climb into my car and switch on the ignition before closing the door. As I head towards the hospital I replay the scene on the doorstep. Part of me is glad that Rhonda and I are on speaking terms again; part of me is bewildered by her attitude. I’ve always been there for Rhonda, I’ve lost count of the times I’ve dropped what I was doing to rush over and sort out whatever mess she was in. I realise now she won’t do the same for me. I’m the strong one; she’s the one who needs support. We can’t reverse these roles. Still, we’ll meet for coffee tomorrow and everything will be back to normal. Well, perhaps not everything.
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Chapter 35 “Mum and I had to go to this information session with these other kids and their parents. It was awful. Some of the kids are just babies.” I pause. Josh is struggling with the knots in his shoelace. “They don’t know what’s going on, poor little things. They were running around, having a good time.” Josh takes off his joggers and props his feet on the bed, inches from my nose. Pooh! I wriggle to the other side of the bed. No, that’s not far enough. “Josh,” I say, “you can have the bed to yourself.” I ease myself off the bed and slide my bare feet across the floor to the chair under the window. It barely makes a sound when I sit down, just a gentle pffffft. “Cool bananas,” says Josh, stretching himself out. “Don’t mention it.” I wriggle around in the chair, trying to get comfortable. “Anyway, back to my story. This woman doctor gave a talk about chemo. Sounds pretty grim. Said it’ll make our hair fall out and it won’t grow back for ages. Kids like me, with brain tumours, though, we’re special.” “Why?” “’Cos we get our heads shaved before surgery so we’re already bald.” I wriggle around some more. I’ve lost so much weight the bones in my bottom dig into the vinyl cushion on the chair. “I have to decide whether to let my hair grow back ’till I start chemo, or stay with the bald look.” “What you gonna to do?” “Dunno, what do you think?” Josh leans closer and squints, tilting his head to one side so he can examine my skull from all angles. He starts laughing. I rub my hands over my head. “What’s so funny?” I ask. ‘It looks kinda raw and shiny, like this chicken liver stuff Mum made for a dinner party. She said it was a delicacy but it tasted like cat vomit.” Josh pauses to scratch his head, “the dessert was good, but.” Josh’s thoughts linger for a while on food then switches to his next favourite subject. “Has she been to see you again?” “Who? Ms Connor?” It doesn’t need an Einstein to work out who he means although for a nanosecond I thought he meant Emily. “Yeah.” “Yeah,” I say.
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“She’s hot.” Josh says, his face and neck turning fluoro pink. He picks at some dry skin around the base of his thumb. “Don’t tell anyone I said that, right, or you’re dead meat.” I’m dead meat already. Josh leans back, still squinting. I can tell he’s giving the hair-growing problem serious consideration because he’s pulling at his lower lip, letting it snap back with a plopping sound. A sure sign he’s lost in thought. Or maybe he’s dreaming about Ms Connor. Josh leans closer, almost falling off the bed, then leans back, his head dropping on the pillows. It looks like my first guess was right; Josh is giving my new look his full attention. “I dunno.” Josh lets his bottom lip slap again before offering his considered opinion. “You’d look okay if you grew your hair back but you’ll look fresh with it shaved.” “Thanks for nothing.” “My pleasure,” Josh says with a mock bow. He grins, “At least you won’t get nits. Kirsten’s got ’em again. I had to wash my hair with that stinky shampoo.” Josh starts scratching his head. I clench my hands tightly so I don’t scratch my own head. I picture Kirsten, Josh’s younger sister. She’s a chubby little thing with a tangled mass of dark curls. I don’t envy Josh’s mother dragging a comb through that lot. “Perhaps your mum should get Kirsten’s head shaved too.” I suggest. “Don’t let Mum hear you say that; she’ll kill you.” “At least then I wouldn’t have to worry about dying of cancer.” “That’s true.” Josh agrees, scratching his head again. “Did you know you can get nits in your eyebrows? … wonder if you can get them in your pubes?” “You’re thinking of crabs.” “Perhaps you can get both.” “I suppose so.” I don’t know much about STDs, I’d shut his eyes during most of the presentation at school. Those pictures of raw-looking penises were enough to put you off sex for ever. There were so many things to worry about, AIDS, genital warts, syphilis, and now cancer. It was all too much. What would Stan do? “Another thing,” I say, trying to copy Stan’s voice, “did you know that chemo can change the colour of your hair? Or it could grow back curly instead of straight or whatever.” “You’re kidding.” “It’s true; this girl, one of the speakers, said she had straight brown hair before chemo, now she’s got curly ginger hair.”
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I pause, remembering how I’d felt when this hot-looking teenager had talked about chemo, about the sores on her scalp, how she had to wear a cotton skullcap because her wig made her head itch. “It can change the colour of your eyes, too.” “No way.” “Yes way.” There’s a brief silence as I try imagine my possible transformation. Would my eyes change colour? My blonde hair become brown? Perhaps I’d sprout a beard or a moustache overnight. “So you could end up with sticky-up red hair?” asks Josh. “I suppose so,” I say, wondering if Emily would still think my hair is beautiful. “Coolio. You’d look like that kid in the cartoon, what’s his name? — Ginger Megs.” “Never heard of him.” Josh looks away, a dull red creeping up his face. “He’s in the comic section in the Sunday papers. I read it when I go to my Gran’s.” “That explains it, then.” “Explains what?” Josh asks. “Explains why you read it … ’cos you only read the cartoons.” Josh’s response is to roll his eyes and heave a deep, dramatic sigh. It’s all for show; no one at school likes anyone knowing they read the papers, even the cartoon supplement, unless they’re in Year 12. “Hey,” says Josh, “it'd be good if you were like a bank robber or something. Nobody’d know what you looked like if your hair changed colour and that.” Sam decides to ignore Josh’s comment, he hasn’t finished his story. “They said we’ve got to wear a hat in the sun, like all the time. All that sensitive skin on top of your head. Imagine how pissed off you’d be if you were cured of whatever kind of cancer you had then you got skin cancer … on your head.” “You’d be dead unlucky if that happened.” “Yeah,” I say, “dead unlucky”.
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Chapter 36 Mum seems relieved that Rhonda and I are friends again. She’d smiled, that smug smile all mothers wear when they’re proved right. It takes me back to my teenage years, when I’d get home from school, hurl my bag on the floor and stomp off to my room, snarling like a wild beast if Mum said anything to upset me, like “Hello” or “Did you have a nice day?” Parents can be so cruel. A few minutes later I’d slink into the kitchen, driven by thirst and hunger, searching the fridge for anything edible. Mum would appear at my elbow like a magician’s assistant. Why is there never anything to eat in this house, I’d wail, and Mum would smile and point to all the tantalizing titbits on offer. Looking back it’s hard to believe I once considered cheese, celery and yogurt to be non-food items; that’s all I have in my fridge now. I wonder if Sam, like my younger self, ever flings open the fridge door hoping to find it STUFFED full of soft drinks, chicken nuggets and left over pizza?
Yes, it’s good to be friends again with Rhonda. Good to have someone to confide in. To talk about life’s serious issues, like Sam’s illness or me and Adam. “I still don’t know what he sees in me. He could have anyone. Jade, for one. I know she likes him and she’s gorgeous.” “She’s not that pretty.” “You don’t have to be kind, Rhonda, she is pretty. And skinny.” Rhonda snorts. “She’s a child.” “Don’t remind me. I feel like her mother, no, her grandmother.” Rhonda starts to play an air violin. We’re sitting in Rhonda’s family room. A familiar scene, the pair of us are on either side of the table, wine glasses close to hand, a bottle of Shiraz placed conveniently between us. I’m eying up a platter of nibbles, trying not to drool. Rhonda has spared no expense. There are slabs of Stilton, King Island blue —my favourite — and Mersey Valley cheddar. As well as dolmades, baba ganoush, beetroot dip and fat olives. It’s good to be friends again, like nothing has happened. I help myself to a piece of Turkish bread and a chunk of goat’s cheese. “Like old times.” Rhonda says echoing my thoughts. She picks up her glass and takes a healthy swig. I follow her example, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand. Rhonda doesn’t seem to mind but I hate that red-wine smile. Rhonda tops up our glasses. I don’t know how she guessed mine was empty, perhaps because I was holding it at arms length, watching the refraction of the sun’s rays in the glass.
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Be that as it may, Rhonda does the good hostess bit and shoves a dish of olives stuffed with anchovies — another favourite — towards me and helps herself to a handful of carrot sticks. Neither of us speaks for a few minutes. It’s hard to talk with a face full of olives and Rhonda doing her Bugs Bunny impression. Finally she stops chomping long enough to speak. “What does he do?” The question throws me. Who is she talking about? Rhonda reads my puzzled look. “Stop frowning, you’ll end up with a forehead like a ploughed field.” “I’m impressed, Rhonda, I didn’t know you’d ever seen a ploughed field. Oh, wait, you’ve got pay TV, you must have seen one on the Discovery channel.” “Ha, ha,” she says, “stop trying to change the subject. Adam,” she insists, “what does he do? His job,” she adds in case she hasn’t made it clear. Joy oh joy, here it is, my golden moment, the only chance in my life to get one over her. I decide to take my time. “He doesn’t have a job, not really.” This is such fun. I take a sip of wine, savouring the moment. I glance up; Rhonda’s forehead is starting to resemble a ploughed field. “What do you mean? Doesn’t he do anything?” I take another sip, eyes down. I can wait. “Is he … he’s not … unemployed?” There’s horror in Rhonda’s voice, she makes the word sound like a disease. I’m tempted to drag it out, to have an ideological debate about what’s wrong with being unemployed but I can’t be bothered. “Ever heard of Extreme Tektronics?” “Oh,” says Rhonda, her upper lip curling, “he works for them. Which store?” “None of them … I mean — all of them.” Rhonda’s mouth puckers as she tries to work out what I mean. “What do you mean? All of them?” “He owns them. Owns the company.” Her face is a picture. “He … owns Extreme Tektronics?” “Yep.” This is one of those wish-I-had-a-pin-in-my-pocket moments. I could’ve dropped it on Rhonda’s satin-finish jarrah-wood floorboards and heard the thunderous sound it made as it hit the floor.
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I stare at Rhonda. It’s fascinating to see how far her mouth can fall open. Her facial muscles start to twitch. It’s a truly wonderful sight. “Really?” she says, her voice high, almost a squeak. “Really.” “He must be loaded.” “He is. Seriously rich” Rhonda tops up her glass and drains it in one gulp. She looks me up and down. “Lucky you.” “Now you know why I wonder what he sees in me.” “Hmmm.” Rhonda looks thoughtful; I bet she’s wondering the same thing. “Let me know if you get tired of him.” “But you’re married.” “That can be taken care of.” I laugh but I’m not sure she’s joking. I scratch my face. Another pimple has popped up at the side of my nose. “I’m trying to be realistic. What’s so special about me? I’ve got nanna arms, a huge bum, and pimples — pimples, at my age.” Rhonda laughs. “Pimples are a good sign.” “Of what?” “That everything’s still working in the reproductive department.” I think about that for a moment. “I wonder who decided to give women pimples to show the world she’s fecund; pimples are the biggest turn off.” “Still…” Rhonda winks at me. “If that’s a tactful way of telling me I can still get pregnant, you don’t need to worry. I couldn’t cope with another baby right now. Anyway, we haven’t — you know.” Rhonda sips her drink. “Are you saying you and Adam haven’t done the wild thing yet?” I’ve just taken a swig of wine when she says this and I nearly bring it straight back. “That’s none of your business, but the answer’s no, I can’t let him see me naked.” “It’s never bothered you before, with the others, or are saying you didn’t…?” “What do you mean ‘the others’? You make it sound like there’ve been hundreds, there’s only been a couple. Anyway, Adam’s different — he’s younger for one thing.” “And richer,” Rhonda adds, as if that made a difference.
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“Neil was rich.” I say, as I drift back to the time I’d spent with him. Neil’s the one before Joel, I thought he was my dream man: tall, fair, with blue eyes so deep they could launch an ocean liner. He was a senior executive in my department and earned at least twice my salary. He had a large, tastefully furnished office equipped with TV and well-stocked bar fridge. He also had an entertainment allowance so he could wine and dine at all the right places, as well as a top of the range car, updated every two years, and, I later discovered, an attractive personal assistant. We’d settled into the habit of going out at weekends when Mum was down to babysit. She liked Neil. He’d came over for dinner once or twice during the week and stay for a sleepover as Sam called it. I thought we were doing really well. I was happy. No, I was besotted. There’s no other word to describe how I felt. I couldn’t believe my luck. I didn’t mind that he wasn’t overly good looking, or that he picked on my appearance, telling me my hair was untidy or my clothes not quite right. I didn’t mind that he was, well, a bit mean. Saying he had no change and could I get the drinks or asking me to pick up theatre tickets, which I paid for on my credit card. He never offered to repay me and I didn’t like to remind him. Didn’t he realise he earned more than me and I had a son and a mortgage to support? To my shame, I tried to ignore his comments about Sam, when he asked things like how much I spent on him a week, and would I carry on working if we lived together (my heart sang when he said this, no wonder I missed the hint about how Sam costs to keep) and I was touched when he said he’d pay for Sam to go to boarding school when he was in year seven. God help me, I was looking forward to spending time alone with my new man. How could I have been so selfish? Or so blind. The final blow happened one weekend when Neil’s mother came for a visit. Glenda was a lovely, grandmotherly woman. Sam and I both liked her. She and Neil came round for a few minutes on the Friday evening. Everyone chatted politely about this and that then Neil said he was taking his mother out for dinner, just the two of them. Glenda looked surprised but didn’t say anything. I didn’t mind, we were all going out for dinner on the following night. The next day Neil rang, his voice husky, said he was feeling sick and couldn’t make dinner. Once again I said I didn’t mind. I cancelled the babysitter and Sam and I ordered pizza and played Junior Scrabble. The following day Neil was still sick, said his mother was going to make him a week’s supply of chicken soup before she went home. A week went by. He didn’t call and I didn’t want to ring him in case he was still sick. I thought about walking casually past his office but he didn’t work in the same building as me.
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He turned up late one Tuesday night. I didn’t suspect a thing, didn’t notice that he seemed distant. I didn’t say anything about his mother going back to Mullumbimby without saying goodbye. I bumbled along as usual. Then a week later, over dinner at a nearby restaurant, Neil said he had something to tell me. I froze, knowing from his tone that I wasn’t going to like what he said. I was right. He told me he’d been seeing another woman. That’s why he hadn’t been round. She didn’t have children, he said, it made things easier. My ears were buzzing. I felt sick. I wanted to run away but I couldn’t move. He leaned across the table and picked up both my hands, gripping them tightly. “I’m sorry, Maggie,” he said, “It was a dumb thing to do. But it made be realise how much I love you.” I kept my eyes fixed on my half-empty plate so I wouldn’t have to look at him. “The trouble is,” he continued, “you’ve got Sam. I don’t think I could bring up another man’s son.” I felt the blood drain from my face, I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t make a scene, though, I simply poured my glass of red wine down the front of his trousers, picked up my bag and walked out, head high, and set off for a nearby taxi rank. Neil dashed out but I’d slid into a cab and was on my way home before he reached his car. He reached my house minutes after the taxi dropped me off. I wouldn’t let him in so he stood in the open door way apologising, begging me to marry him. The babysitter was amused but I wasn’t. For the next few weeks he kept up his campaign, promising eternal fidelity, even promising to let Sam live with us, if only I’d give him another chance. If only he’d asked me a few weeks earlier, I thought, now it’s too late. Sam and I missed his mother.
I come back to the here and now to find Rhonda still puzzling over what Adam sees in me. “He obviously fancies you,” she says, looking me up and down again as if I’m for sale. She tosses back her wine. “If I were you I’d stop worrying. You’ll be okay. Might as well enjoy it while you can.” My spine stiffens; really, every vertebra snaps into line and stands to attention. “You mean given my track record it’s not going to last.” “No, that’s not what I mean. I don’t want you to get hurt.” “Hurt? You mean something hurts more than having a kid with cancer?” Rhonda’s pretty little face crumples. “Oh, Maggie, I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say.”
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I risk asking a sensitive question: “Do you think I’m doing the right thing? Going out with Adam … when Sam’s …” Rhonda pats my hand, it’s sticky — probably the Camembert. “Yes, I think you’re doing the right thing. You deserve time for yourself, away from Sam, then you’ll appreciate the time you spend together.” I’m getting all teary and I reach for a tissue. “I feel so guilty. It doesn’t seem fair that I’ve found someone when Sam …” I break off and blow my nose. “You know what I mean.” “I do, and it’s no good beating yourself up about it”. She tops up our glasses and asks more probing questions: “Where does he live? Have you been to his house? What’s it like?” “I haven’t seen it yet but I’m going there for dinner on Saturday, Adam’s cooking. It’s in Forrest, Barkly Crescent. It sounds enormous. It’s got six bedrooms, three bathrooms — one with a two-person spa — a study, family room, an enormous rumpus room and an outdoor kitchen. And,” I can’t wait to add this bit, “an indoor lap pool.” Rhonda’s eyes glaze over. I bet she thinks I’m making it up. “It’s also got a separate granny flat.” I want to say it’ll make a fantastic teenage retreat; I don’t. Rhonda’s eyes remain glazed, she’s probably trying to visualise Adam’s house. She takes a sip of wine without looking and spills some on her blouse. The blood-coloured stain spreads across the front of her cream shirt. It looks like she’d been stabbed through the heart. “Bugger,” she says, mopping at the stain with a tissue, “it’s raw silk.” “Don’t put it in nappy soaker then, I did that with my favourite purple silk blouse and it went all patchy. I can’t wear it.” “Thanks for the tip. Not that you’ll need to worry about doing the washing any more. You can afford to throw things away when they get dirty and buy new ones.” I roll my eyes at her. “It’s not my money. Anyway, as you so rightly pointed out, who knows how long it will last. It seems too good to be true. He’s got Mum under his spell and Sam treats him like a god. And you should see the way he spoils me. He’s such a gentleman, opens the door, helps me into my coat. Pays for dinner.” “That’s ’cos he’s trying to get into your knickers,” Rhonda snorts, “once he’s had his wicked way you’ll have to open doors yourself — and pay for your own dinner.” Neither of us notice that Gerard, Rhonda’s husband, has walked in. “That sounds interesting. Who’s trying to get into whose knickers?” “Don’t look at me,” Rhonda says, smirking, “I’m not wearing any.”
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Gerard smirks back. That’s my cue to leave.
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Chapter 37 7 June I pick up my journal and write the date. The pen falls out of my hand. I leave it and imagine myself writing the entry. I don’t know what to write. I’m back home but it’s not as exciting as I thought it would be. Everyone’s at work or school so I’ve nothing to do. Sleep, wake up, feel sick, have some medicine, go back to sleep, try to eat, watch TV. Yawn!!! No wonder I sleep all the time. I read somewhere that prisoners can sleep for around 18 hours a day cos they’ve nothing else to do. I know how they feel. Think I’ll have another nap before I go stir crazy.
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Chapter 38 It’s good to have him home. Even though he has to go to the hospital every few days, even though he’s still sick, even though he’s miserable most of the time, it’s still good to have him home. Adam gave him a TV with an inbuilt DVD player and set them up in his room. Sam’s nagged me for years to have his own TV but I’ve always said no, said if he had his own TV I’d never see him. He mumbled and grumbled but I think he saw my point. Sam was excited when he saw the TV. Then he decided he doesn’t want to stay in his room on his own so Mum and I made a nest for him on the couch in the lounge room. Mum moved the coffee table closer to the couch so Sam can reach his comics and drinks. He’s settled down now with me and Mum hovering around him like nervous hens, anxious to do something, anything… Mum must’ve read my mind because she picks up her bag: “I’m going to the shops. Want anything?” I shake my head. I wait until Sam’s eyelids droop then I head for the kitchen. I’m tired and happy and anxious and, well, everything. I’ve no idea what I’m doing but being busy helps. I had to leave him on his own for a few hours the other day and I came home to find him channel surfing. He looked fed up and I felt guilty. That’s a common feeling. I feel guilty when I go out and guilty when I stay home because there’s nothing I can do for him. Sure, I can bring him food and drinks, plump up his pillow, play cards, but I want to do more than that. I want to make him better, cure cancer. That’s not too much to ask, is it?
Sam’s still dozing when the doorbell rings. It’s Jade. She follows me inside. “How is he?” “He was sleeping a few minutes ago. I’ll see if he’s awake.” I leave Jade removing her bike helmet and fluffing out her hair in front of the hall mirror while I check on Sam. He’s awake and struggling to sit up. “You’ve got a visitor.” “I know, I heard, it’s Jade.” He looks pleased. I leave them together and go to the kitchen. There’s nothing to do. Mum’s promised to make her famous chicken noodle soup for dinner; guaranteed to cure anything.
“Mum?” I’m clearing away Sam’s plate; he’s barely touched his soup.
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“Yes.” “Can Hannah come and see me?” “Of course. Anytime.” “You’ll have to put Lady outside, she’s frightened of dogs.” “Did you tell her Lady’s friendly?” Sam laughs. “She said everyone says that. People always say their dog’s such a sook it would lick you to death.” He pauses, looking deep in thought, “Remember that woman who used to be in that TV program, where she played a pathologist. Gran can’t stand her, says she gets right up her nose. Anyway, imagine her examining a corpse, describing the victim as female in her late twenties, dark skinned, well-nourished and covered in dog drool.” He laughs again. “Don’t tell Hannah I said that, she might not think it’s funny.” “I promise,” I say, “but I don’t think she’ll mind.” “Probably not,” Sam says, “She told me a story the other day, I’m not sure if it’s meant to be funny. It’s about this old man. All he does is sit at the front of his house. Every day, rain or shine. He talks to people walking past but most of the time he just sits there, on his own. One day this man asks him if he ever gets bored and the old man said he’ll have to think about it. After a few minutes the old man said he doesn’t get bored because there’s so many things to do. The man asked what things and the old man said: “Well, sometimes I talk, and sometimes I sit and think, and other times I just sit.” “At least he’s happy.” “I guess … I’d hate to get like that.” I feel a familiar twinge as if an octopus is tightening its tentacles around my intestines. I wish with all my heart that Sam can grow up to be like that old man sitting in his front garden, watching the world go by. There’s nothing wrong with being old, especially when you consider the alternative. “Promise me something?” “What?” “If you see me sitting in that blasted rocking chair on the front veranda, chatting to complete strangers, nodding off in the afternoon…” “I won’t have long to wait, you do that now.” “Hey, there’s no need to be cheeky, young man. I want you to promise me that you’ll wake me up if I start snoring.” Sam laughs. “You do that too.” He laughs again, a rich, snorting sound and the tentacles relax their grip.
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Chapter 39 12 June It’s three something in the afternoon and I feel like shit. I’ve felt fucking awful all day. Feel sick and hungry at the same time. It’s the pits. I nagged Mum to buy me some salt and vinegar chips and a can of coke but the chips got stuck in my throat and the coke tastes like rat’s piss, not that I’ve ever drunk rat’s piss but I bet that’s what it tastes like.
Got so fucking mad I threw the can at Mum. I said she’d put something in it to make it taste bad. She started to cry. Think I got her on her cheek cos there was a big red mark below her eye. I wanted to say sorry but I couldn’t. Was so fucking angry. It’s not fair, why does shit keep happening to me?
When she stopped crying Mum reminded me that Dr Field said chemo could make things taste funny. I felt bad when she said that but how am I supposed to fucking remember every fucking thing? She said someone told her he couldn’t drink wine after he’d had chemo because it tasted like rotten eggs. I’ve never tried wine or rotten eggs so what do I know?
14 June I feel better today. Not great, just better. Started to tell Mum I was sorry about the coke thing. She said it doesn’t matter. It must be tough for her, having a sick kid. I bet she wishes it was her that was sick. That’s the kind of thing mums do. That’s what my mum would do.
She said she’d help me sort out my Stan collection. Said I’ve got so much stuff I should go on that TV show, the one where people show off all this weird stuff they’ve been collecting for years. Some of it’s cool but they have junk too, like old fridges, plastic eggcups, and toothbrushes. One woman had a collection of stuff she’d knitted. Like a sideboard and a sewing machine and fruit and things. I could send in my beanie collection.
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Chapter 40 It’s a shock seeing this strange woman in my bedroom. She looks gorgeous, the light picking up the gold streaks in her hair, her skin glowing. That black floaty top and straight calf length skirt suits her.
I enjoyed getting all frocked up. I’m going over to Adam’s place. He’s cooking dinner. Mum’s down for the weekend so she’ll look after Sam. We don’t use the word “babysitter” any more. Sam keeps reminding me he’s thirteen and a half and doesn’t need babysitting. Says he likes having someone around to keep him company. How cute is that. I’ve taken up Adam’s offer of a lift. I’m sure I could find his house but this way I won’t have to panic about getting lost in the dark or being breathalysed on the way home. Adam turns up in his ever–so-shiny silver Porsche. I hope my neighbours are out taking photos. Adam lets Sam sit in the driver’s seat and shows him which switch does what. It has that wonderful new car smell. I don’t know why perfume manufactures don’t bottle it and sell it as an aftershave. Guaranteed to pull the hotties, as Sam would say. Adam looks as gorgeous as ever. He’s wearing what look like new jeans, probably designer label but I’m not familiar with that end of the market. I recognise the logo on his shirt, Country Road. It’s duck-egg blue check and picks up the colour of his eyes, turning them a stormy grey. And is that a cashmere jumper he has over his arm? When he’s finished showing off his new toy he lifts a giant hamper out of the boot and carries it inside. It’s full of goodies from a newly opened gourmet grocer. He sets it down on the kitchen table and I join Mum and Sam to drool over the contents: chocolates, hard boiled quails eggs, French truffles, a crystallised fruit cake, cheeses, dried tropical fruits, a whole ham, a tinned lobster, savoury biscuits, and dozens of jars and boxes and tins of things I’ve never heard of. The hamper is topped off with a bottle of Krug Grand Cuvee. The caviar doesn’t impress Sam and he can’t have the champagne but he says he might try the prawn and lobster pâté and the lemon and ginger marmalade. “Not on the same piece of toast,” he adds. At least the boy’s got taste. Well, he had until the chemo kicked in. Adam brushes off our thanks. “It’s from one of my suppliers. I get dozens of them and bottles of wine and other stuff. You should see what I get for Christmas.” “It’s very kind of you to think of us.” Mum says, eyeing the truffles. “My pleasure,” says Adam. He then made Sam’s day by asking if he’s got one of the new cell phones. When Sam shakes his head Adam tosses one into his lap with a casual: “You
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might like to try this. They’ve just come in. I’m not sure how they’ll go. Let me know what you think.” Sam’s face lights up like a disco ball. For the next few minutes he and Adam engage in a language that has a few recognisable words such as e-mail client, web browser, and two- way pager. By the time they start using acronyms I can feel myself getting twitchy. It’s time to go. It’s a struggle but I manage to drag Adam away from his adoring fans and march him outside. He holds the car door open while I climb in. I feel like a movie star. Adam puts on a classic rock CD and we sing along to Queen as we cruise our way to Forrest. I’d expected Adam’s house to be huge but when he pulls into the driveway I’m shocked. It isn’t a house; it’s a mansion. An English stately home. Adam says it was built in the late 1920s by the firm that built the Lodge. That explains it. The garage door rolls up and Adam tucks the Porsche next to his Land Cruiser and there’s room for at least another two cars. Sam would love this place. I trail behind as Adam opens the front door and goes into the massive hallway. It’s hard not to stare. It is truly amazing: polished ash floors and creamy oriental rugs that didn’t look like they were bought in a closing down sale, and there’s a wood fire crackling in the lounge room. I stop to admire an elegant glossy dark-wood bureau with sparking crystal ware winking behind leaded glass diamonds. A grandfather clock in a distant room chimes the half hour. The kitchen is a chef’s dream — pale timber cupboards with cream marble bench tops and enough gadgets to stock Habitat twice over. Adam makes me sit down at the breakfast bar while he prepares a platter of antipasto. I watch as he deftly arranges marinated artichoke hearts (my favourite), shaved Jarlsberg, paper thin slices of pastrami, as well as various olives, cheeses, and sun dried tomatoes on a large white oval plate. The combination of smells is intoxicating, my mouth is watering so much I have to keep swallowing otherwise I’ll be dribbling like Lady when I throw her a treat. I take my eyes off the tempting platter and watch him slice crunchy Italian bread, but my attention keeps drifting to the way the light brings out the gold in the hairs on the back of his arms. Adam sets the platter down on what is clearly a genuine oak table, big enough for ten. We sit opposite each other at one end. He pours me a glass of Chianti. It’s icy cold and delicious, it almost takes my breath away. “I didn’t know Chianti could be served cold.” Well, I have to say something.
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“You mean because it’s red? I know red’s meant to be served at room temperature but it depends on how hot the room is. I don’t like my wine too warm.” He put on a phoney French accent — or it could’ve been Italian. “As for Chianti…” He twirls his glass, the light making the rosy liquid sparkle like rubies. “I prefer it cold, it refreshes the palate, especially when you’re sampling different tastes,” he indicated the platter, “like this.” He forks up a spear of lightly steamed asparagus and holds it out to me. I pick it off with my fingers and pop it in my mouth. I smile my satisfaction. The main course is chicken breasts stuffed with Camembert, served with salad and baked potatoes. “This is great. You obviously like cooking.” “Not really, I can manage a few basic recipes and I like to experiment.” He waves a hand around the table, “this is probably as good as it gets.” Hurrah, perfection is so hard to live with. Adam slices off a bite-sized piece of chicken and stabs it with his fork. He holds it at eye level as if admiring it. “I thought about taking cooking lessons but I couldn’t decide whether to do Thai, Chinese, or Indian.” He chews the chicken, savouring it thoughtfully. “I started a wine appreciation course when I was in Tuscany, that’s why I know about the Chianti, but I got bored so I gave it away. Besides,” he grins, “I didn’t want to turn into a wine snob.” I put my fork down on my plate, plain white with a fine gold line around the edge. “I don’t know much about wine, other than that there are two kinds, white and red. Oh, and that some wine costs more than others but it doesn’t necessarily taste better. I’m also not much of a great cook.” I take a swig of wine. “I thought I’d better get that out of the way.” Adam laughs. “That’s okay. You shouldn’t believe the myth that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” No, it’s lower down. I can feel my cheeks start to glow — must be the wine. We’ve moved on to a Sauvignon Blanc, a beautiful wine. I’m glad Mum hadn’t offered Adam a bottle from our collection as a “thank you” when he brought round Sam’s bike. Even the wine on the bottom of the rack couldn’t compete with the stuff we were drinking.
I don’t find out what Adam had planned for dessert. Before we’ve finished the chicken I’m in his arms, his lips taste of salt and wine. I mould my body against his; he holds me tight as I find his tongue with mine. A few minutes later I’m in his bed.
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Chapter 41 21 June Another exciting trip to the hospital for a check up this afternoon. Something to look forward to. Shouldn’t take long. Dr Field is OK. Not as nice as Jenny though. Least he treats me like a grown up. He usually sits on my side of the desk, and I do mean on the desk, with one leg dangling. He sometimes wears a bow tie, the kind that ties at the front not one of those on a piece of elastic. He must have a lot of ties cos he wears a different one every time I see him. Today he was wearing an orange and lime green bow tie that flashed on and off. He had red and white spotted braces under his jacket. I pretended not to notice. I bet it drove him crazy.
24 June I’ve been home for three few weeks and apart from going to the hospital the most exciting thing I’ve done is to shower on my own. Even then Mum had to help me climb over the rim of the shower tray and turn the taps on before I got in, so the water would be at the right temperature. I had to sit on a plastic chair in case I passed out and cracked my head open. Like Duh!!! I wasn’t quite on my own. Mum waited outside the bathroom, with the door slightly open, while I had my shower. How embarrassing. I refused to take my underpants off until she’d gone out but it was, you know, a bit thingy.
25 June I’m bored. I used to say I never got bored but I’m bored now. It’s not my fault there’s nothing to do but flop around. I’m so over it. Perhaps it is my fault after all. I told Mum it was all right for her to go into work. For one day. To catch up on stuff. She said she’d be home early. It’s not lunchtime yet and I’m already missing her. Even Gran’s deserted me, dashing back to Sydney for a week. She thought Mum would be here, and Mum thought … it’s not as if I’m not old enough to look after myself. It’s just … things are different now. I can’t take Lady for a walk or ride my bike — even though Adam got the broken wheel fixed. Josh and Brett are at school. I wish I was with them. Now boredom hangs over me like a shroud, or an uninvited guest that demands attention and offers nothing in return. Time passes micro-second by micro-second. But I don’t want it to go any faster. It’s not like I’ve anything to look forward to. I check out the lounge room. It’s hard to imagine how much I’d longed to get out of hospital, counting the hours on the last day, telling myself that when I got home everything would be normal, but what’s normal? I can’t believe I’d looked forward to vegging out,
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watching DVDs all day and playing “Tomb Raider”. Boring, boring, boring. And I’ve finished the work the teachers sent over from school. That shows how bored I am. I’ve read all my comics and they were seriously boring. In desperation, I pick up “The Canberra Times” and finish the Sudoku on the back page in less than 10 minutes. Everything is so amazingly yawn-making.
26 June Went to the hospital for a change. Saw the paramedics who’d brought me in. Didn’t know who they were until Mum pointed them out. Said she’d made them a cake. They came over and asked how I was. Said I was OK. Nick, the young one, told Mum she bakes a mean chocolate cake. Bet he was hoping for another one. He said they’d been to a fire and brought in this little kid. He’d made a pretend cigarette out of toilet paper and lit it with his mum’s lighter. It got hot so he dropped it and set fire to his tracksuit pants. His legs were badly burned but they said he’d be all right.
Must be a tough job. Nick said it is but sometimes they have fun too. He said they have to laugh or they’d go mad. I said I know how that feels. Nick said one stinking hot day he was driving back to the station when he pulled up alongside a fire truck at a pedestrian crossing. The two drivers looked at each other, wound down their windows, and squirted each other with toy water cannons. The best bit, he said, was the looks on the faces of the people crossing the road. I wish I could’ve seen it.
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Chapter 42 Monday morning. Only five minutes since Friday. The words on my monitor are blurry; nothing to do with the power supply or the screen, more to do with the operator’s temporary visual disturbances. I can’t think either but that’s nothing new. I blink back tears, blow my nose and try again. It’s no good; nothing makes sense. I rub my eyes, picking crusts from the corners. No time for a shower this morning. I can’t believe I overslept. I barely make it to the hospital in time for a quick visit. Now I’m sitting at my desk pretending to work. I can feel the blood rush from my face and I try not to faint. My head feels light and my ears are buzzing. I can hear my colleagues murmuring around me but I can’t make out the words. They sound so far away. The rise and fall of their voices is soporific, like waves lapping the shore.
I must have drifted off because I jump when a hand touches my shoulder. I yelp, my heart pounding, trying to work its way out through my mouth. I feel like vomiting. I made myself turn around to see who it is. It’s Ashley, my boss, looking stony-faced. “Sorry to wake you.” I’m ready to snap his head off. I swallow my anger, and a lump of vomit, and try to look normal. “I was concentrating.” “Well, anyway, I’d like a quick word. Is now a good time?”
Is now a good time? Is there ever a good time? I don’t think so. Yesterday morning I got in the lift with a man I’d never seen before. He had a security pass round his neck so I guessed he must work in the same department. I hit the button for the fourth floor and turned my back on him. “Lovely day,” he said. “Is it?” I replied. The lift shuddered to a halt and the doors slid open. The man brushed past me then turned back, his face close to mine. “Cheer up, love, it may never happen.” The door snapped shut before I could respond. How dare he? It had already happened.
“Yes, now’s fine.” I say, waiting for a smile, some sign that I’m not in big trouble. Ashley remains po-faced. He steps to one side so I can stand up then he follows me into his room, closing the door behind us. We sit down and I wait, eyes down, tears ready to burst out. Until recently we’ve
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had a fairly easy relationship. I’ve been around long enough to know what’s going on and to pick up on a crisis. I work hard and I’m good at what I do. I’ve no ambition to go any higher so I’m no threat. Ashley is around my age, perhaps a year or two younger, but he looks older. His hair is almost completely silver, a few streaks of black here and there. Tall and slim with fine features, he’d slotted neatly into the role of career public servant. One of those bright young graduates able to leap several levels of the hierarchy in a single bound. And he still has a long way to go. I blink, put on my bravest smile, and look him straight in the eye. He still isn’t smiling. I wriggle in my chair. What’s this about? Ashley looks around the room, stacks some papers on his desk into a pile and turns back to me. He looks tired; don’t we all? “I know these past few months haven’t been easy…” He trails off. Perhaps he wants me to help him out. Perhaps I should apologise for having a sick child. I’m not going to do either. He clears his throat and starts again: “Everyone’s been doing their best, picking up when we can and …well, I want to say you can take time off if you need to, or work part time … whatever.” This isn’t what I’d expected. “I’ll backfill your position,” Ashley continues, “Make it easier for the others.” He laughs, “Can’t afford anyone to go off on stress leave.” I have to turn my head; those sneaky tears are threatening to make a run for it. Ashley stands up and pats my shoulder. I can’t look at him. A tsunami of emotions surges through me: relief, guilt, pain; I feel unworthy of so much kindness. I wipe my face with my hands. Ashley holds out a hand. I let him help me out my chair. He pats my shoulder again as I leave his office. I hold myself together as I head back to my desk. Then I turn off my computer and walk out without saying goodbye.
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Chapter 43 31 June I saw a shrink today. His name’s Dr Agius but he said I could call him Norman if I wanted to. So I did and he said why are you calling me Norman and I said cos you said I could and he said he’d rather I didn’t so I said why not and he said cos it’s not my name. It’s Hayden. I only said you could call me Norman if you want to, I didn’t say you had to!! He’s mad — and he’s the shrink!!
In case you’re wondering, I’m not seeing a psychiatrist cos I’m crazy, it’s all part of my “treatment plan”, that’s what Mum calls it. I get to do all sorts of things that are supposed to make me feel better, like seeing a psychiatrist. Don’t know if anything will get rid of this big momma thing in my head but it’s better than doing nothing.
The psychiatrist wanted to know how I felt. I think he wanted to know if I had depression. We did depression at school when we did suicide and stuff. Told him I was OK. I wanted to tell him I wasn’t going to kill myself. What’s the point?
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Chapter 44 Adam’s late, only a few minutes but I know something’s wrong. A cold hand grips my intestines and tries to push them into my throat. I swallow a lump of cold vomit. Almost twenty minutes creep past before he finally turns up. He smiles and gives me a brief hug but his face is drawn, his eyes unfocussed. Adam drops onto the couch. I sit next to him, close but not touching. He leans forward, hands on his knees. I resist the urge to touch the tender hollow at the nape of his neck. “How was it?” Adam sits up and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. He turns towards me and gives me a sad smile then he leans closer and kisses me, soft and tender. I push him away and force him to look at me. “Come on, what did they say?” “Just like I thought it would be. Mum had gone all out, you know, radio playing, classic FM, table beautifully laid, cutlery and glasses gleaming. Dad sprawled on the couch reading his paper.” I try to picture the scene. Adam’s mother is called Joy; he said he used to think it was an inappropriate name for a woman who rarely smiled. She’s small and slender while Neville, Adam’s father, is tall and solidly built with a full round face that seems to be always smiling. Adam said people meeting them for the first time might wonder what’s kept the two of them together for more than 30 years. He knows why his parents’ marriage had survived. Despite appearances, Joy isn’t a miserable woman, merely an anxious one. She told Adam that when she was pregnant with him she didn’t decorate his nursery or stock his wardrobe shelves with tiny clothes. She didn’t buy a cot or a pram or any nursery paraphernalia, she spent her time worrying that something dreadful would happen, that he’d be stillborn or he’d die shortly after birth. It was a relief when after a labour lasting less than two hours she gave birth to a strapping baby boy, weighing almost nine pounds and with a healthy appetite. As soon as he’d had time to meet and greet his firstborn, Neville was handed a lengthy list and sent off to shop for supplies. Joy’s relief at the safe arrival of her son was short lived as it dawned on her that she now had something else to worry about. She was responsible for the wellbeing of another human being; his health and happiness depended on her. This was an awesome responsibility and over the years Joy’s slim shoulders grew stooped under the weight. Despite this maternal anxiety, Adam thrived; he was a bouncing baby, an amiable toddler, and later a gifted student. As each milestone was celebrated — passing his driving test first time, twenty first birthday,
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graduation ceremony — Joy beamed with pride but she couldn’t get rid of that nagging fear that something bad was going to happen. It’s no wonder Adam’s an only child. Adam straightens his shoulders and carries on with his tale. “The food, as always, was delicious. Some of the vegetables were home grown. That’s been Dad’s job since he retired; Mum says it keeps him out of the way.” Adam pauses. I put my arm around his shoulders and pat his back encouragingly. “Mum gave her usual spiel about me not coming home often enough, said I should do what Rosie’s doing — she’s the daughter of one of Mum’s friends. She’s moved back home and rented out her apartment so she can pay off her mortgage.” I know Adam wouldn’t remind them that he’d already paid off his — and his parents’ — mortgage or that he owned a couple of investment properties, including a swish new penthouse in Kingston. He also wouldn’t tell them why he and Rosie had never got together, despite the coordinated efforts of both mothers who’d tried for years to pair them off. It’s not that Rosie is unattractive – she’s a statuesque brunette with pale, creamy skin and enormous china-blue eyes; or smart – she’s a senior registrar at Canberra Hospital and has a wicked sense of humour. No, the reason is more prosaic; Rosie isn’t interested in Adam, or in any other man. They’d agreed to keep this their secret for as long as possible. Adam leans forward. I continue to rub his back, stroking my hand up and down his spine and around his broad shoulders. “Mum asked if I was seeing anyone, said it’s odd she doesn’t know what her only child’s up to.” I take my hand away. “Did you tell them?” Adam nods. I feel sick as he tells me how his parents had taken the news about me. His mother, predictably, had been anxious, concerned that he was going out with a single mother, even after Adam pointed out that I was a widow not a divorcee because by then she’d leapt onto the fact that I’m older than him. “I said you’re only thirty-six but you don’t look a day over thirty-five.” “Thanks.” “Sorry.” Adam slides off the couch onto the floor and kneels in front of me. He gathers me in his arms, my head resting on his shoulder, and strokes the back of my neck. His hair tickles my nose and almost makes me sneeze. I sniff loudly and reach for a tissue. “Sorry,” I say, as I blow my nose, “I never had time to perfect a ladylike sniff.”
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Adam smiles, “You’re perfect just the way you are. That's what I told them — that you’re perfect. They can’t wait to meet you.” “That’s great,” I say, “what did they say when you told them about Sam?”
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Chapter 45 11 July Another visit to the shrink. He’s OK. He asked me to tell him a joke so I told him the one about the elephant walking through the jungle. He’s feeling very proud because he’s so big. He sees a tiger and asks the tiger why he isn’t as big as him. The tiger is embarrassed and slinks away. The elephant continues walking through the jungle until he sees a lion and asks the same question and the lion slinks off too. The elephant continues walking and feeling very proud and then he sees a mouse. The mouse is small and skinny with a runny nose and watery eyes. The elephant asks the mouse why he isn’t as big as him and the mouse sniffs and says, “I’ve been sick”.
The shrink laughed so hard I thought he’d fall off his chair. Then something weird happened. I started crying. Tears and snot running down my face. I must’ve sounded like a cow farting.
The shrink was all over me, handing me a box of tissues, pouring me a glass of water. When I stopped crying he asked if I wanted to carry on or wait until the next session. That’s when I lost it. Asked him how he knew I’d still be around for the next session. It’s all right for you, I said, you’re not the one with a brain tumour. Anyway, you’re older than me. You’ve done things. I haven’t done anything. He asked what I wanted to do so I told him. Everything on my mental list. Then I said what’s the fucking point in talking about it? Does it matter if I go completely psycho? Said I wished I could go crazy. Guess what he said? Shit happens. That’s it. He’s supposed to be an expert and all he says is shit happens.
19 July Another appointment. This time I told him I feel like shit but I’m OK with that. Said I was worried about Mum and Gran. Said I was glad Mum has Adam to look after her. Said I know Gran’s sad cos she wants to take me on holiday with her when she retires. Said now I won’t have to hurt her feelings cos it’s not cool for a guy my age to hang out with his gran.
That’s not true, though, cos I like hanging out with Gran and I probably wouldn’t mind going on holiday with her. She’s always saying she’ll take me camping one day.
When we were driving home Mum said I don’t have to see the shrink again for a while. That’s a shame cos he’s a cool dude.
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Chapter 46 Rain, rain, glorious rain, nothing quite like it for easing the strain. I slide open the door and stand on the back deck, breathing in the invigorating scent of fresh rain. Everything looks brighter. The grass and leaves are a vivid green, strange, luminous. Someone told me this is because of the change in the light; when the sky is grey there’s less blue or yellow light, or something, which is why normally boring green foliage becomes electric green, looking like something from another planet. I breathe in; everything smells clean and fresh. I can feel the poor parched plants sighing in relief as they finally get a decent drink. The garden has been neglected for weeks; I haven’t had the time or energy to do anything. That’s one advantage of not watering the garden; nothing grows so there are no weeds to pull up, no grass to mow. The rain’s coming down more heavily, splashing from the deck onto my feet. I start to shiver and go inside. Mum’s in the kitchen, teapot in hand. “Want a cup?” I open my mouth to say yes but something strange happens. Vomit fills my mouth. I rush to the bathroom. Head down over the toilet bowl I bring up a stream of foul brown liquid, the tea I’d drunk earlier. My stomach convulses as I continue to retch even though there’s nothing left to bring up. I sink onto the floor, leaning against the side of the bath, my legs stuck out like a child’s. I wipe my face with my hands; it feels cold and damp. “Here.” Mum hands me a warm, damp washer. I dutifully wipe my face and hands and hand the washer back. “Come on, I’ll help you up.” Mum sticks out both hands and I grasp them gratefully, my legs still wobbly. I lean against Mum’s shoulder and let her lead me into the family room. I sank onto the couch, feeling nauseous and exhausted, my ears buzzing as if a thousand bees have set up home in my head. Mum hands me a cup and I sniff it cautiously; it isn’t tea. I sip the warm water with a dash of ginger and lemon. It’s like nectar. I gulp it down, then I straighten up, nursing the cup between my hands. “Sorry about that, I don’t know what came over me. Must be something I ate.” “That’s not what it looks like to me.” “What d’you mean?” “Well, I’m no expert but it looks like a classic case of morning sickness.”
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“Fuck.” I shoot off the couch, nausea and fatigue forgotten, and rummage through my handbag, tipping the contents onto the dresser. Pulling out my diary I flip through the pages until I find what I’m looking for. I run my finger down the months, ticking off the weeks. “Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.” I see Mum purse her lips but she wisely decides it’s not the time to reprimand me for swearing. “Well?” “Seven weeks since my last period. How come I didn’t notice? Seven weeks.” I throw the diary back in the drawer and slam it shut. That feels much better. I rub my hands through my hair. Mum’s making soothing, shushing noises, but I don’t want to be shushed. It’s no use telling me to calm down; that’s like telling a bull in a china shop that all breakages must be paid for.
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Chapter 47 Mum sits on the edge of Sam’s bed stroking his hands, the bones visible beneath his fine skin. She loves his hands, says they remind her of Richard; his hands had been the same shape, broad based with long slender fingers. She’d stroked his hands too, many times, in the weeks before he died. A single tear slides down her cheek. “Sorry, love,” Mum says, “I was thinking about your dad.” I feel like I’ve been punched in the guts. I keep forgetting how hard this is for her, reliving that awful time before Dad died. Her eyes are unfocused, staring at something miles away, years away. I wait for her to speak. “We’d been together a long time, me and your dad. We met at a high school dance. I couldn’t believe he chose me to dance with.” I’d heard the story of how Mum and Dad had met many times but I loved hearing it. I sat back in my chair and let her talk. “The first time we went out together was a Sunday afternoon in late summer. We didn’t have any money to go for a meal or to the movies so we went for a walk in the botanical gardens. It was hot so we sat on a bench in a sheltered corner, I could feel the heat of him burning through my cotton skirt. I couldn’t stop staring at his hands; fine shaped hands with tapering fingers, and clean fingernails. They were soft but not feminine, a man’s hands, intelligent, gentle hands. The hairs on the back of his hands sparkled gold in the sunlight; they made me want to cry.” She stops stroking Sam’s hands and folds her own hands neatly in her lap. “Thirty-four years. Thirty-four mostly happy years. We were content with each other. In all that time we’d only one bad time, when you born. I was so ill the doctors had to perform an emergency hysterectomy. I would’ve loved more children. Then darling Sam came along and it was like being a parent again.” Mum pauses and looks away from me. “We were looking forward to growing old together.” Dad didn’t have time to grow old. For weeks he’d complained about feeling tired, off colour, no appetite. He was barely 57 and he was walking around like a man 30 years older. Finally Mum dragged him to their GP. That’s when it all changed. He had leukaemia. I couldn’t believe it when Mum told me. We just stared at each other. Not believing what was being said but knowing it was true. The specialist said it usually responds well to chemotherapy. Said he’d need several courses of treatment over the next few months.
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Dad had a Hickman line inserted, just a small operation, to make it easier to give him chemo and to take blood samples so they wouldn’t need to keep using needles. I felt sick when I saw it, a plastic tube snaking under his skin from his collarbone to his nipple. It made him look … inhuman. He must have guessed how I felt because he grinned at me, his lop sided grin, and held my hand as if I was the patient. Dad had to stay in hospital for ten days for the first course of chemo. Mum and I visited him every day and sometimes Sam came too. Mum often spent the night in the chair next to his bed, borrowing blankets and a pillow from the night staff. One day I volunteered for the night shift so Mum could get a proper sleep. I dozed off and when I woke I had to dash to the toilet. I was still half asleep and walked into the wrong room. The patient was sitting up; I willed myself not to look but my eyes betrayed me. I looked away but the image etched itself on my brain. A gaping hole where a face should be. I gagged but managed not to vomit. My throat was full of my own sickness mixed with the imagined taste of rotting flesh. The stench was unbearable. How do nurses bear it? After two weeks in hospital, when his immune system had recovered, Dad was allowed home for a rest before he started the second round of chemo. Then he’d come home for a while and then go back … That was the plan. But Dad’s disease didn’t respond to chemo. The doctors tried different treatments but he got sicker and sicker until one day he said he’d had enough. Mum took him home. Sam and I stayed with them the weekend before Dad died. Sam sat at the side of his grandpa’s bed, playing snap. Whenever Dad dozed off Sam kept on playing, letting his beloved grandpa win every second hand. Keeping up a commentary on the game. The end came sooner than expected. It was a Wednesday in mid-September. The weather was mild with above average temperatures. Mum said that in the afternoon she opened the bedroom window and propped Dad up against his pillows so he could look out at the distant trees, a faint hint of green already visible as the tightly curled leaves started to unfold. She sat at the side of the bed, stroking Dad’s hands, tracing his fingers with hers, turning his hands over to stroke his palms. Talking to him, sharing memories of their life together. When it grew dark she closed the window but left the curtains open. She felt tired so she moved Dad, gently, to one side and laid next to him. She closed her eyes. She said she dreamed she was lying on soft grass, breathing in its sweet scent. Someone whispered her name and she felt a kiss, as soft as a butterfly’s wing, on her cheek. She turned to face him
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and his hands gripped her around the waist, drawing her towards him. Then he released her, her cheek resting lightly on his chest. He gently pulled her head away, fingers tightening in the thick curls at the back of her neck, the other hand gently stroking her face, wiping away her tears. She woke shivering. Dad was cold. She moved closer, moulding her body against his to warm him. She slept for a while, still holding his hand, until the icy cold woke her.
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Chapter 48 I close the bathroom door and lean against it. I’m breathing heavily as if I’d been out jogging instead of taking a sedate stroll to the local pharmacy. God knows what I’ll be like in a few months when I won’t be able to see my feet or tie my shoelaces. I count off the seconds, eyes fixed on a thin strip of plastic. Minutes creep past like undercover agents as I wait for a line to appear. Yes. There it is, a pinkish-purplish, a bit faint, but it’s there. This means it’s positive or perhaps not … I can’t remember. Yes, I’m pregnant. My heart feels like it’s trying to burst out of my chest. I’m going to have a baby. Mum’s clattering in the kitchen, a comforting sound as I can’t face cooking. It’s getting dark. I move towards my bedroom window then stop, conscious that I’m holding my hands across my lower abdomen, fingers locked, protecting this tiny scrap of life inside me, about the size of a broad bean. I unclasp my hands and rub them gently over my still flattish tummy. I’m pregnant, after all these years. Thirty-seven’s not too old to have a baby. Lots of women have babies at my age or even older. Much older. I smile, remembering how I’d felt when I found out I was expecting Sam. Those first few weeks were awful, the sickness, the fatigue, worrying whether I’d miscarry or the baby would be born horribly deformed. Sam was perfect, is perfect. The birth had been a breeze compared to the horror stories my friends shared. I was one of the lucky ones. Sam was a beautiful baby. I know every mum says that but Sam was truly beautiful. Plump and pink with the right number of fingers and toes and neat little flat-to-his-head ears. A normal, healthy little boy, he scored a perfect ten on the Apgar Scale. He did the normal things babies do: he drank the right amount of milk and put on the right amount of weight, and talked and walked at the age babies are supposed to talk and walk. He was a good sleeper too, unless he wasn’t well or he was teething. When he went to day care he caught the usual coughs and colds and other bugs going around but otherwise he was a perfectly normal, healthy child. Until now, that is. I shudder and feel a knife twisting inside me. I put my hands over my tummy, trying to soothe the little one growing inside. Another stab of guilt; how can I worry about this unborn child when the child I already have needs me? What sort of a mother am I? How can I cope with two children? I don’t have enough love to go round. A poisonous thought slithers into my mind, I try to ignore it but it won’t go away. Better face it, I decide, and be done with it. I let it out and the snake spoke, words I couldn’t say: What will Sam say when he hears about the baby? Will he think I’m trying to replace him? Will he still be here when it’s born? I shake my head and the snake slides off, leaving me drained and exhausted.
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I drop onto the bed and swing my feet up. I’m still wearing my joggers, I don’t have the energy to take them off. Bugger the doona, too bad if it gets dirty; I can always wash it or buy another. My hands stray again to my abdomen and I leave them there. I remember a school trip to look at old buildings in Richmond and Windsor in NSW. We visited Ebenezer Uniting Church, almost two hundred years old, the oldest church in Australia. It wasn’t like I’d imagined. I was more impressed by a huge old tree in the church grounds. Now that really was old. Then we visited St Peters Cemetery in Richmond, the final resting place of the early pioneer families in the Hawkesbury region. We’d scampered among the graves, trying to read the inscriptions on the worn, moss covered headstones. I checked out the inscriptions, readings the names of those long-ago families who’d lived in huts or neat little cottages, some of them still standing in the main street, and in farmhouses long demolished, the land turned into housing developments. I’d wandered up and down the rows of graves, all those babies, some days old, others in their late teens or early twenties. So many young lives cut short. How did their parents cope, I thought, as I read a list of names on one stone, all young children, all from the same family? Was that why families then had so many children? So they had ones to spare in case they lost a couple? I shiver, as if I was back in the churchyard, or perhaps a ghost has walked over my grave, I shiver again. Stop it, I tell myself, you’re getting morbid.
I heave myself off the bed and go to tell Mum the good news. Not that I need to say anything, she can tell by the look on my face. We hug each other, Mum patting my back. “I’m so pleased for you,” she says, tears trickling down her face, “I’m sure everything will be all right.”
Mum goes into the kitchen while I make an appointment to see Jenny, not that there’s any doubt but I might as well do things properly. There’ll be so much to do: book a bed at the birth centre, tell my friends. And Sam. I’ll have to tell Sam. But there’s no rush, no point telling him yet in case things … don’t work out. The first few weeks are always a bit tricky, anything can happen. I’m not trying to put off telling him, nothing like that, I just don’t want to get him excited until I’m absolutely sure. I have another thought: what about Adam? What will he say?
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I call Adam as soon as I leave Jenny’s surgery. We arrange to meet for lunch. I arrive early and I’ve shredded a pile of tissues by the time he arrives, worrying that he might not turn up. Adam pulls out a chair and sits down. He picks up my hands. “What’s wrong? Is it Sam? Are you all right” he asks, trying to read my face. I shake my head. “Not Sam.” Adam looks confused. I can’t imagine what he’s thinking so I blurt it out. “I’m pregnant.” “What?” “Pregnant.” Still no response. I try again: “I’m having a baby. We’re having a baby.” “You’re sure?” I nod. “Positive. I’m about six weeks.” Adam stares at something in the distance, a different place and time. What is he thinking? The waiter chooses that moment to stroll across with pad and pencil. His smile fades when Adam pushes his chair with such force it topples backwards, catching the hapless waiter on the shin. Adam tosses some notes on the table and the waiter’s face brightens. “Sorry,” Adam says, “we have to go.” We hurry out. Adam steers me towards his car. I barely have time to fasten my seat belt before he sets off, heading towards Commonwealth Park. Adam pulls into a car park facing the lake and turns towards me. “I can’t believe it. A baby.” I still can’t read his face. My throat tightens. I’m shaking. “I’m not sure I can do this, Adam. Not now.” I lean closer, desperate to throw myself into his arms. Adam is as still as a statue, his eyes frozen. “You don’t have to … go through with it … not if you don’t want to.” I feel sick, horrified. “What do you mean? You want me to have …” I struggle to say the word, “have an abortion? You’re not serious? I’m going to lose one child, how can you ask me to get rid of this one?” I hear my voice rising but I can’t control it. Adam pushes his hair out of his eyes. “That’s not what I mean. I thought you might want to wait … until ... until you know what you want.” “Is that what you want?” Adam runs his hands through his hair, beautiful hands, beautiful hair. He looks me straight in the face, his lips narrowed.
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“I need to be sure you want this child … that you’re not trying to replace Sam …” I can’t believe what he said. I slap his face hard enough to leave an imprint of my palm on his cheek. I draw back my hand to slap him again but he grabs my wrist. I snap open the lock on my seat belt and reach for the door handle. He grabs my other wrist and forces me to face him. “Maggie, look at me, I don’t want you to have an abortion. Are you listening to me? I want you to have this baby … my baby. But it’s got to be right … for both of us. I’m thinking about our future.” I try to wriggle free but Adam’s grip is vicelike. “I can’t think about the future, Adam, I’m taking things one day at a time.” “And where do I fit in? Don’t I have a say? Or am I just a convenient sperm donor?” Before I can reply, Adam lets go of my wrists and turns to stare out of the window. I follow his stare but there’s nothing to see except an overflowing garbage bin with a used condom sticking to its side. Perhaps it reminds him that if we’d been better prepared we wouldn’t be in this situation. I put a hand on his arm and feel his muscles tense. “I’d like to go home now. I need some time on my own.” “Sure,” Adam said, “whatever you want. Why not? I’ve done what you wanted. Given you a new kid to replace the old one.” I get out of the car and walk along the path, fishing in my bag for my phone. Adam drives the few metres towards me and winds down his window. “Maggie. I’m sorry.” “Get fucked.” “Get in. I’ll drive you home.” He reaches for my arm but I jerk it away. He jumps out of the car and stands in front of me. “I said I’m sorry.” He holds out his hands, palms facing me. “I’m worried about you. I don’t want to lose you.” “Yeah, right.” I walk off but he catches up to me. “Come on, Maggie, don’t be stupid.” I turn my back and press the numbers for Canberra Cabs.
Mum’s visiting Sam when I get home. I force myself to wash my face and clean my teeth before falling, exhausted, into bed. I slide my feet under the sheets; they’re cotton and feel cool against my skin. I don’t know what to do about Adam but I’m too tied to think.
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I snuggle further down the bed and pull the doona around me. What will I do if Adam abandons me? I can’t ask Mum for help. She’s made plans to travel next year when she retires. Poor Mum. What was it John Lennon said? Life happens while you’re busy making other plans. I mentally fold up my plans and tuck them away. I’ll do what I have to do; I’ve no other plans.
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Chapter 49 Another sleepless night. Well, mainly sleepless. I must’ve slept because I kept waking up, thinking about Rhonda and her pimple theory. She was right; everything in the reproductive department is still working. Daylight at last. I open the curtains at the side of the bed. The streetlights are still on, making the street a ghostly grey. The skeletal branches of the maple tree at the side of the house wave in the wind, scattering a few fat brown leaves that dance in the air then roll into the gutter until a fierce gust sends them scampering down the street like a plague of rats. I shiver and snuggle under the doona. Mum wakes me with a gentle nudge. She puts a cup of tea and a couple of arrowroot biscuits on the cupboard next to the bed and creeps out. I close my eyes, I could easily have drifted off to sleep but I force myself to stay awake. Freeing myself from the knot of sheets I struggle into a sitting position then stretch out a hand for the tea but the smell makes me gag. I stagger to the bathroom on jelly legs, flip up the toilet seat before falling on my knees, head over the bowl, and vomit. There’s not much to bring up, a great gush of liquid then it’s over. I rock back on my heels, heart pounding, face sweating, too dizzy to move. I open my eyes to find Mum standing next to me. I lean against her, too weak to stand up. We stay like that for what seems like ages, neither of us speaking. Mum passes me a washer and I wipe my face. She helps me to my feet and waits while I splash my face with water and clean my teeth. Then she helps me into the bedroom, steering me by the elbow as if afraid I’ll fall. She’s probably right. I flop on the bed, head down, hands dangling between my knees. Mum sits next to me and puts her arm round my shoulder. My stomach is still heaving. I wipe a hand over my face. I’m drowning in perspiration. “You should be used to this,” Mum says, “you had plenty of practice when you were expecting Sam.” Mum’s right; I’d vomited all the time. I didn’t have morning sickness; I had morning, noon and night time sickness. I’d mop up vomit when I didn’t make it to the bathroom in time; then I’d vomit again after I’d cleaned it up. I was a vomit machine. Everything set me off: bread, tea, coffee, chocolate. And smells, too: perfume, furniture polish, paper; anything could set my stomach churning. At least I didn’t have to keep an eye on my weight. It was all worth it when Sam was born, I couldn’t imagine having a second child. How could I love another child as much as I love Sam? Later, I longed for another baby. Trouble was, I had to find the right man. And that had never happened —until now. I used to tell myself how lucky I was to have Sam. I should be grateful to have one perfect child. I was. I
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am. Tears start bubbling at the back of my throat. After all this time, why does this have to happen now? What about Sam? Mum gives me a reassuring squeeze. She must be a mind reader. “Sam'll be thrilled when he hears the news. He’d love to have a baby brother, or sister.” “I know, but not now … when he’s …” Mum grips my hand. “He’ll be pleased, honestly, even now … especially now.”
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Chapter 50 I spent another wretched night at the hospital. I hadn’t tried to sleep although I crave the luxury of dreams. I can be whoever I want to be in that other place. Tears travel that well-worn path down my cheeks. I leave them until they reach the end of my nose then I wipe them on my sleeve. I’m past caring. I feel like shit but I know Sam’s feeling shittier. What kind of a wuss am I if I can’t cope with a bit of morning sickness, backache, and fatigue? It’s nothing compared to what Sam’s going through. I tip my cold coffee down the sink and switch on the kettle. This is getting to be a familiar routine: boil kettle, make coffee, leave it to go cold, then throw it away. Maybe I should pour the coffee granules and boiling water down the sink. It would save time. When I was expecting Sam the smell of coffee made me nauseous. Trouble is, this time everything makes me vomit. Including, I’m ashamed to say, my darling son. I hold his head while he throws up. I bathe his face and give him a drink and all the time my stomach’s churning. I try not to inhale. I wipe my face on a piece of kitchen towel and blow my nose, honking like a goose with blocked sinuses. As I toss the paper in the bin I realise I’m not alone — one of the other mothers is standing in the doorway, cup in hand, tears flowing. It’s like looking in a mirror. She sees me and gives me a sad smile. I smile back. She moves to the sink and empties her cup. “Awful, isn’t it?” I nod. “I keep asking why? Why us, why our child?” She raises her head and I see the pain in her eyes; eyes without hope. “You know what I mean?” I nod again. She looks away. “They told me it won’t be long — we’re taking her home tomorrow.” Her shoulders are shaking and I put my arms around her. She turns and rests her head on my chest, I stroke her back while she cries. We stand like that for several minutes, sharing a common grief. She lifts her head, her face soaked with tears. “She’s so excited about coming home; thinks she’s getting better. And she’s looking forward to seeing her friends but they won’t be able to come. Can’t risk her catching anything.” The woman rubs her hands over her face then shakes her head. “Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to let them see her … like this … they’re just kids.”
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My mind conjures up a picture of a skeletally thin figure, completely bald, with pale pinched lips stretched tight over raw gums in a grey, sunken face. She’s right, it’s the face of a frail older person, not a young child. “How old is she?” “Just turned four.” A thousand comforting clichés run through my mind, none of them suitable. In the end I ask her the one question I hate being asked: “Do you have other children?” As if having one or a dozen children can make the pain of losing one more bearable. “Yes, Bethany, she’s nearly two. She goes to day care, poor thing. She’s always catching things so she can’t come and visit her sister. It’s hard keeping them apart. I don’t know what I’m doing most of the time.” I remember a conversation I’d overheard between two nurses, they were talking about a little girl who’d been born with cancer. She’d been in and out of hospital since birth. This time she was in with pneumonia. One of the complications of chemo is that it slows down the immune system. Sure, it kills the cancer cells but it leaves the patient open to every bug that’s going around. Imagine beating cancer then dying of a cold? I struggle to remember the girl’s name, something unusual. Cerise? No. Cheyenne? No. Ceri, yes that’s it. “You’re Ceri’s mother?” The woman sniffs. I take that as a “yes”. “It’s a pretty name. Where’s it from?” “It’s a Welsh name, short for Ceridwen the goddess of poetry. It’s my grandmother’s name. She’s from Pontypridd in South Wales. Bethany is my mother’s name.” The woman blinked and wiped her eyes. “It doesn’t seem right, does it? Grandma’s ninety two and still going strong.” I shake my head; there’s nothing to say. The woman turns back to the sink, rinses her cup and puts it on the draining board. “I’d better get back.” She moves towards the door but then stops. “Have you been to any support group meetings?” “No. Have you?” “I didn’t want to, not at first, then I went to one. It was … it was all right. People can be very kind.” On my way to Sam’s room I stop to look at the notice board.
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What am I thinking? Why am I sitting in my car at the rear of the hospital? I’d left Sam sleeping peacefully and driven over to the community centre. It had been another beautiful day, one of those crisp, clean, late-winter days Canberra is famous for; dry and sunny with a postcard-blue sky. Makes you feel good to be alive even if the temperature doesn’t reach double figures. I’d gone to work — late of course — and spent the few hours I was there wishing I hadn’t bothered. Some of my colleagues had gone for a walk at lunchtime, stripped down to shorts and singlets, coming back with a healthy glow to their cheeks, leaky noses and a greasy sheen of perspiration. I’d gone for a jog too — a quick dash to the Canberra Centre where I raced around with the last remaining shopping trolley. It had a bent wheel and a mind of its own and refused to go down certain aisles. I lifted some weights as I struggled back to work, bags hanging off each arm. A trio of walkers were returning to work at the same time so I could tail gate them into the building. Good thing as I didn’t feel like putting down my shopping, grovelling in my handbag for my security pass, then picking up my bags. I would’ve gone home. I’d staggered to my desk, dumped my bags on the floor, switched my computer on and spent the afternoon doing not very much. People are so kind, though. Willing to do anything, anything, to help. I’m being buried in kindness. It’s like being inside a bubble. I can see what was going on; hear conversations, yet nothing touches me. Sometimes the weight of all their separate kindnesses is overwhelming. Today’s one of those times. I’d be better off at the hospital with Sam, or with Adam. I can’t believe I was so angry with him when I told him I was pregnant. Must be all the hormones racing around. I’d arrived home after our quarrel to find his car parked in the drive and the path to the front door covered with flowers. Mum tactfully stayed in her room while Adam and I talked long into the night.
I surprise myself when I decide to attend the fundraising meeting after visiting Sam, although deciding to do something and actually doing it are two different things. But somehow here I am, sitting in the car park at the rear of Curtin shops. I’d be quite happy to stay in the car, with the heater on. Or I could go home. Cuddle up on the lounge with a warm drink and a steamy book. Instead I force myself to pick up my bag and get out of the car. I wish I’d got here earlier so I could slip in without anyone seeing me, sit near the door, ready to make a quick exit. But what with waiting until the last minute to leave Sam, then running out of petrol and having to freewheel into the nearest servo — one that wouldn’t accept my discount petrol voucher — I’m the last to arrive.
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There are seven people sitting around a long narrow table, six women and one man. Seven pairs of eyes strip me to the bone as I walk the length of the room and pause, hand on the back of a vacant chair, waiting for permission to sit down. I recognise one of the women; her little girl, Sasha, had been in hospital with Sam. I smile at her. “Sit down,” she says, smiling back, “I’m glad you’re here.” She glances around the table. “We can always use an extra pair of hands.” I sit down and wait to be introduced. It doesn’t happen. One of the women is wearing a bandanna. I wonder if she’s going through chemo or wearing it to support someone who is. A thin woman with grey hair and matching cardigan gives me a thin smile. “We’ve just started. I’m Ingrid, I’m the secretary,” she says, preening herself. “When we’ve finished our meeting we usually have a cup of tea and a biscuit. You’re welcome to join us. We each bring something…” her voice tails off when she sees me reaching inside my bag and pulling out a packet of Tim Tams. I’ve come prepared. I give a nervous laugh that everyone tactfully ignores and put my bag on the floor. I take a surreptitious look at the others, trying to give the impression that I’m an enthusiastic volunteer rather than a guilt-ridden mother afraid that bad things — something worse — might happen if she doesn’t do something to help the cause. The lone male gives a genteel cough. He looks like one of those self-satisfied men who bring out the worst in me. You know the type: clean-shaven, fit, goes to the gym every day. Irons his tracksuit pants — or gets someone else to do it. Now he’s giving me a self-satisfied smile. He probably spends hours in front of a mirror perfecting that smile. I notice a full set of neat white teeth. I bet they’re not real. “I’m Alec,” he says, reaching across the table to shake hands, “how do you do?” “Hi, I’m Maggie.” I glance around the table. Thankfully none of the women feel the need to shake hands. “Well,” Alec says, rubbing his hands together. Perhaps he’s trying to get the benefit from the hand cream I’d transferred during the handshaking exercise. “Back to business. We need to come up with something creative for our next fundraiser. Think outside the envelope.” I smile, wondering if he’d deliberately mixed his metaphors. I glance at the others, they’re all gazing at him as if hypnotised. “We need to do something big, something colossal.” He leans towards me: “These chocolate drives and cake stalls are all very well but …” he purrs, flashing his teeth. Some of the other women are simpering. “I’ve an idea that could make thousands in one night.”
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He throws himself back in his chair, hands behind his head. When he judges that he’s built up enough tension, he leans forward, elbows resting on the table, fingers steepled, eyes roaming around the group. I’ll say this for him, he certainly knows how to build a dramatic atmosphere. “A black tie dinner.” He pauses, counting the appreciative nods. I seem to be the only one not nodding, I’m waiting to hear more. “Yes,” he says, warming to his theme, “we could hire the Convention Centre, probably get it at discount rate, get some celebrity to MC it and some local bands. They’ll be happy to donate their services.” He flips open a notebook to a page covered with calculations. “I’ve worked out the costings based on a four-course meal with champagne on arrival. After expenses we should be able to clear about thirty, thirty five thousand.” “How much will the tickets be?” I have to ask, don’t I? Seven frosty faces turn towards me, I feel like a party pooper. “Oh, somewhere in the region of …” Alec puffs out his cheeks; it makes him look like a guinea pig. “A hundred and fifty dollars.” I gasp, “How much?” “A hundred and fifty dollars — that includes a four course meal, champagne and canapés on arrival, and entertainment.” “For one ticket? It’s a lot of money.” Alec leans further across the table. “It is a fundraiser, my dear.” Now I feel like the dumbest kid in class. “We could offer a discount for tables of ten, say ten dollars off each ticket.” “Who can afford a hundred and fifty dollars a ticket?” I look at the others but they won’t make eye contact. Alec waves his hands around the room, “Lots of people can afford it.” He pauses, then adds, “Especially since it’s for a good cause.” You don’t need to tell me; my son’s one of your good causes.
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Chapter 51 I try to quell the rising tide of nausea, I swallow and my stomach heaves. My own saliva almost makes me vomit. Is this how Sam feels after chemo? I slip a mint into my mouth and tiptoe into his room. I needn’t have bothered; he’s wide awake and deep in conversation with Hannah. The pair of them look at me, their grins widening. “This son of yours has no respect for authority,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “Sorry about that,” I say, “I blame his parents. He was badly brought up.” Hannah snorts. “Here I am, trying to give him an injection and he refuses to cooperate.” She pulls what looks like an enormous syringe from behind her back, it’s filled with fluoro-pink liquid and when she presses the plunger a dozen or more huge bubbles floating into the air. Sam laughs as Hannah tries to catch the bubbles. One lands on Sam’s head and he swats it away. “Can I have a go?” Hannah hands the device to Sam and after several attempts he manages to produce bubbles that are almost as big as Hannah’s. He tries to spear them too and is very excited when one rests on the tip of the syringe, wobbling like a jelly for several seconds before collapsing. Sam laughs so much he starts to cough and Hannah adjusts his pillows so he can sit up straight. She rubs his back gently and after a drink of water his coughing subsides. “There,” she says, “much better than physio, eh?” Sam nods, blowing a huge bubble. Hannah notices my puzzled expressions and explains. “We use bubble therapy on the younger patients, when they’re confined to bed. Bubbles make them laugh and that helps to clear their lungs. It’s more fun than having physio.” She pauses to watch Sam, laughing as a spray of bubbles floats towards the ceiling. “I thought you’d be too grown up to be amused by a child’s toy …” “I am too grown up. I’m only pretending to be amused.” Sam says, letting loose a volley of bubbles, “to make you happy.” “Yeah, right,” Hannah says with a grin.
I follow Hannah out of the room when she and Sam have finished blowing bubbles. Sensing that I’ve something private to say, she leads me into the quiet room. I flop down on the couch. Hannah sits in the armchair facing me, waiting for me to speak. I can’t meet her eyes.
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“I don’t know how to say this …” “The best way is to open your mouth and let the words fall out.” That’s what I like about Hannah, she always knows what to say. “All right,” I look up, her large brown eyes stay fixed on mine, her face full of compassion. “I’m pregnant.” Hannah lets out a deep breath. “Well thank the Lord. I thought you were going to tell me something terrible.” “How can I be pregnant?” “Well, girl, if you don’t know I’m not going to tell you.” I smile at her. “You know what I mean.” “How long?” “Eight weeks.” “Am I right in thinking Adam’s responsible?” “You are.” Hannah nods, her face serious. “Have you told Sam?” I shake my head, tears building up. Hannah leans over and squeezes my hand. “It’s up to you, but I’d tell him sooner rather than later.” My heart drops to my feet and tears run down my cheeks. She’s right. “I’ll tell him now.” Hannah gets to her feet. “Give yourself a few minutes.” She opens the door, “And let me know if there’s anything I can do.” I smile my thanks and she slips out.
I sit quietly for a few minutes then I wash my face, re-apply my lipstick and practise my smile in the mirror. When I get to Sam’s room he’s watching TV with the sound off. He quickly flicks his attention from the screen to me. Despite my efforts with the lipstick Sam is instantly concerned. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing’s wrong. I’ve some good news.” “Yeah, right.” Sam doesn’t look convinced. I force a smile. “You know that Adam and I have been seeing each other?” Sam nods. “Well …”
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“You’re getting married.” Sam interrupts, beaming. “Cool.” “Not yet … we might … the thing is …” I took a deep breath: “I’m pregnant.” “A baby. You’re having a baby.” He turns to face me, a smile spreading across his face. “Wow, that’s fantastic. When’s it due?”
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Chapter 52 3 August At last I’ve something important to write about. Something v. important. Mum’s having a baby. Says it’s due around March next year. I suppose I’m pleased. I always wanted a kid brother but a sister would be OK too. A boy would be best cos I could teach him stuff and stand up for him if anyone picks on him. That’s if I’m still here when it’s born.
7 August Today’s a special day; it’s my fourteenth birthday. I look at my cards. There are too many to fit on my locker so Hannah brought in some clothes pegs and fastened them to a long piece of string stretching the width of the room. Mum and Gran bought me an acoustic guitar and a “how to play” book but I’m not doing very well. They’re coming back later with a cake. Brett and Josh are coming too. Emily’s not sure if she can make it but she said she’d try. Adam came over at lunchtime with a quarter pounder, French fries and a thick shake. I tried my best but I couldn’t eat much. Adam and I had a man-to-man talk. He said his intentions are honourable and he’s no intention of abandoning Mum. Said she needs time to come to terms with everything. I guess I’m a big chunk of the “everything”. All that fried food made me sleepy, I felt vomitous too so I fell asleep gripping my sick bowl. The noise of the bowl hitting the floor woke me up. There’s no way I could pick it up and I couldn’t be bothered ringing the bell. Another wave of nausea hits and I lean over the side of the bed. I must be still dreaming cos there’s a pair of feet in a pair of ginormous rainbow-coloured shoes standing there. I look up, the feet and the shoes belong to Sister Sassy. She picks up the bowl and hands it to me. “I won’t stay. I just called in to wish you a hippo birdie — and to give you this.” She holds out a wooden stick with a pair of larger-than-life red lips, parted in a smile, on one end. “For when you can’t manage a smile.” Sister Sassy hands over her present and turns to go. I hold the cardboard lips to my face then the nausea comes roaring back. The smile falls to the floor and is quickly covered in vomit.
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Chapter 53 Adam holds my hand as I breathe through my contractions. We’re in my bedroom. The windows are wide open, curtains fluttering in the warm breeze. Mum wipes my face with a washer, dipping the cloth in a jug of iced water. She squeezes out the water over the bed, slivers of ice falling through the air to land, hissing and melting, on my swollen belly. Adam moves closer. He’s wearing motorcycle leathers. I didn’t know he had a motorbike. “I have to go now,” he says, strapping on his helmet. Tears spring to my eyes. I know I’ll never see him again. I try to call out but my voice won’t work. Then there’s a cry, the mewling sound of a newborn baby. I hold out my hands and Hannah places my baby in my arms for the first time. I watch as it grows bigger and bigger. It looks like Sam, Sam as he is now. Mum’s smiling and cooing. She holds out her arms and I hand him over. She unbuttons her blouse and he starts to suck at her dry breast. Then Adam returns. He’s changed out of his motorcycle gear and is wearing a suit and tie. A white carnation in his lapel. “C’mon,” he says, “we’ve got enough time to get married before the baby comes.” “You’re too late, he’s here already,” I point at Mum. But she’s gone. In her place is a tiny foetus, still attached to a pulsing placenta, its skull-like face turned towards me, its hollow eyes locked onto mine.
After a second cup of black tea and a slice of dry toast I feel brave enough to face the day. It’s a miserable morning. Patches of frost have settled on cushions of decomposed leaves, foggy droplets fall from bare boned oaks and drizzle their way down my spine. The stark slate sky makes my eyes water. By the time I get on the bus most of the seats have at least one occupant and none of these singletons are willing to make eye contact in case I take it as an invitation to sit next to them. A large, dark man with badly pitted skin has taken the seat nearest the door. He’s taking no chance of anyone intruding on his space, sitting diagonally across the seat, thongs dangling off dirty bare feet into the aisle. I shuffle past and squeeze into a seat next to woman in a navy business suit. The woman moves fractionally closer to the window, giving me an extra centimetre of seat space. She clutches her briefcase tightly to her chest as if afraid I might run off with it.
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The bus pulls out and immediately the woman next to me reaches forward and presses the bell. Bitch, why didn’t she tell me she was getting off at the next stop? The bus stops and the doors open. I’m getting ready to stand up but I have to wait while several other passengers go past. The woman gets to her feet, her bony thighs pressing against mine as she squeezes past. I wonder why she doesn’t say “excuse me”, or “would you mind”, or “sorry to disturb you.” I step into the aisle to give her more room and she sweeps past me without a word. More passengers get on and I shuffle closer to the window, I’m happy to share my seat. A petite grey-haired motherly-looking woman sits next to me. “Off to work?” the woman chirps, a shy smile curling her thin upper lip. Oh God, a talker, just what I don’t need. “Yes.” I say, wishing I could be rude and ignore the woman. I almost wish the woman in the suit had stayed where she was. “I’m off to see my grandson,” she says, “he’s in hospital. Had his appendix out. Actually, he had them out yesterday but his mum said I’d better wait till today before I see him.” She sniffs contempt at the boy’s poor mother who’d dared to keep grandma away from grandchild. She chatters on. I try to tune out but her voice penetrates my brain. Should I tell this woman about Sam? What would she say? Before I can think it through the words fall out of my mouth, everything, a whole river of stuff I’ve never told anyone. The woman listens, her smile stretched taut like a scar. Finally I run out of words and the woman looks at me, still smiling. “Well, dear, I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sure it’ll turn out for the best.” She fumbles for her bag, getting ready to get off. “At least it’s not as bad as my nephew. He’s lost two sons to cystic fibrosis and there’s a third one still living with it, poor little thing. It’s a terrible disease. You’re lucky you’ve only got the one child.” With that, she presses the bell and stands up. I’m too shocked to speak. Lucky? Are there degrees of luck when it comes to losing a child? Funny, I don’t feel lucky.
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Chapter 54 I flick through my journal. I haven’t written in it recently. Mum and Gran are talking in the kitchen, their voices rising and falling, getting louder. They must be arguing. Mum says two women in the same kitchen is a recipe for disaster; Gran says that visitors and fish go off after three days. She’s been here for four days already and is obviously getting up Mum’s nose. I pick up my pen; it has a fluffy chicken’s head with vomit-yellow feathers at one end. Jade gave it to me. I start to write.
13 August Yeah!! Emily rang this morning. She’s coming round after school. I asked Mum to wash the beanie she made cos it’s a bit grotty.
Adam came round at lunchtime to help me have a shower. I can manage on my own but sometimes I need help getting dressed cos my legs get a bit wobbly. Adam’s OK, I don’t mind when he gets me undressed and everything. That’s one of the fucking awful things about being sick, I was getting used to being sort of grown up and now it’s like being a kid again.
Mum and Gran helped me into the lounge room so I could sit on the lounge. Emily sat next to me. She held my hand. Her eyes looked teary and I thought she might cry but she said she was getting over a cold. I didn’t tell Mum cos I’m not supposed to be around anyone who’s sick. Emily liked my funky chicken-head pen. I told her about Jade, I hope she wasn’t too jealous!!!
Mum brought in a tray with glasses of orange juice and a plate of tiny sandwiches with the crusts cut off. There was one of Mum’s chocolate cakes too and cake forks. Very posh. I told Emily we ate like that all the time. She laughed. Said she thought I ate beans out of the tin. She kissed me on the side of my mouth when she was going. I wanted to kiss her back, hold her against me, touch her skin. When she left I started to cry. Mum came in to clear up and she asked what was wrong. I said nothing. How could I tell her? What would I say? I’m crying because I’ll never know what it’s like to have a proper girlfriend. What could she do about it? What can anyone do?
I’d stopped crying by the time Mum helped me get ready for bed. I still feel fucking miserable.
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Chapter 55 Rhonda, Rhonda, Rhonda. I glare at her, my top teeth clamped tightly on my bottom ones. Why does she do this to me? If I wasn’t so mature I would have stuck my hands over my ears and hummed to drown out her voice. As it is, there’s nothing I can do but wait until she finishes ranting about her latest idea, willing her to run out of breath before I forcibly expel it from her body. At last. Silence. She’s either finished saying what she has to say or else she’s realised I’m not listening. “You’re not listening.” “It’s not that, it’s all so … complicated.” “Complicated? There’s nothing complicated about it. All you have to do is talk to this guy. I’ve told him about you and he’d like to help — you don’t need to take Sam.” Rhonda’s wearing her superior expression. I lock my fingers together so I won’t hit her. “Rhonda, it’s terribly kind of you, and I know you mean well, but I think I’ll give it a miss.” “Why?” Rhonda snaps; crocodile jaws widening ready to bite my head off, “Doctors aren’t gods, Maggie, they don’t know everything.” “Yes, but …” I look around the café. A young mum with a toddler at her breast looks up at the same time and smiles. I smile back and turn to face Rhonda. “I guess I trust Dr Field. And the nurses. They seem to know what they’re doing.” Rhonda has steam coming out of her ears; if she’d been standing up she would have been pawing at the ground. “Come on, Maggie, you’re not usually so … conventional. What’s the harm in trying something different? How do you know it won’t work?” Rhonda’s face is inches from mine, I lean back, those teeth of hers are terrifying. I steel myself for battle. “Rhonda, it’s my son we’re talking about. I’m not taking any chances. I don’t want to screw things up. I’ve thought about vitamin supplements but as Doctor Field says, Sam’s got enough chemicals sloshing around in his body as it is. And as for those herbal remedies, they look like dried duck droppings and I bet they taste worse. He’s dying, Rhonda, why make the short time he’s got left miserable?” I lower my eyes. Rhonda reaches across the table and grips my hand. Time to make amends. “I’ve prayed to every god I can think of, whatever gods look after boys. I’ve asked the universe for help. Prayed for a miracle. Has anyone got back to me? No they haven’t. I’ve not given up hope, Rhonda, miracles still happen.”
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I have to stop; my voice is breaking. I clear my throat and start again, eyes fixed on Rhonda’s. “Hope is all I’ve got left.” The last few words are a bit muffled but that’s not surprising as tears are chugging down my cheeks and lapping into my mouth. Rhonda gives me a tissue — and a hug. She’s a great hugger. I clear my throat again and carry on. “I’m not against alternative therapies. Sam enjoys his Reiki session, he says it’s relaxing, and he likes his massage sessions and aromatherapy.” Rhonda looks pleased. I feel glad about that but I’m not doing things just to please her; I’m doing what I can to make Sam better, if I can’t do that then I want to make him happy.
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Chapter 56 20 August Hannah came round last night, not to babysit, to keep me company while Mum and Gran went to this fundraising dinner. Hannah said she’d stay the night cos they were going to be out late. She said she didn’t want to miss out on her beauty sleep. I said she’d need to have permanent insomnia before she stopped looking beautiful. Hannah smiled and said I was a smooth talker.
Mum left dinner ready for us and when we’d finished I taught Hannah how to play backgammon. She won. I said she’s not supposed to beat a sick kid but she said she’s a nurse and the only fun she gets is beating sick kids. She means winning, not hitting them.
29 August It’s Mum’s birthday. Gran came down to keep me company while Mum and Rhonda went out. They went to see a play, two women talking. Sounds dead boring. Adam rang before Mum went out and she talked to him for so long Gran thought she’d miss the beginning of the play. I don’t know why Mum didn’t want to go out with him instead of Rhonda. They spend a lot of time on the phone and they always kiss and cuddle when he comes over. I’ll never understand grown ups even if I live to be a hundred.
I tried to teach Gran how to play backgammon but she didn’t get it so we played euchre instead. I won.
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Chapter 57 “Your mum’s having a baby? At her age?” Josh sounds shocked. “Wow, what d’ya think about it?” I’ve asked myself the same question several times since Mum told me the news. I think I’m pleased, I am pleased, but it also makes me feel … sad — I’m not sure how I feel. “I dunno. It’s weird thinking about Mum having another baby. Guess I’ve got used to being an only child.” “Well you might be dead before it’s born so they’ll be an only child.” “Thanks, Josh, you know how to cheer a guy up.” “Don’t mention it,” says Josh. Josh, Brett and me are in the family room. It’s one of my better days but I still insist on having the couch all to myself while the other two lounge on a pair of overstuffed beanbags at my feet. “It’s not bad having brothers and sisters.” This is Brett; he has an older sister and two younger brothers, one still a toddler. “That’s not what you said the other day,” says Josh. “You said that after listening to poo-bum play “Twinkle, twinkle” on his toy piano fifty million times you’d lost the will to live.” “Good one, Josh, there’s such a thing as tact,” Brett says, being his usual protective self. He’s wasting his time, Josh was born minus the tact gene. “Anyway,” Brett adds, “Sam might get better or have remission or something.” “What’s remission?” Josh asks, “Isn’t that what prisoners get, you know, when they get out of jail early for good behaviour?” “Yeah,” I say, “never thought of that.” There’s a pause while they pay due homage to Josh’s flash of brilliance. It does occasionally happen. “Anyway,” I say, “wouldn’t it piss you off if I did get better?” “Why?” asks Josh. “’Cos I was going to leave you my entire Star Wars collection.” “Whoop de do,” Josh says, waving a middle finger in the air to illustrate his point, “I can hardly wait.” Brett glowers at him. “Shut up, Josh.” “Why? What did I say this time?” “Don’t bother,” I say, “he doesn’t get it.”
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Josh scowls, eyebrows almost touching, and slides further down on his beanbag, arms folded tightly across his chest. I pretend not to notice: “When Grandpa died Mum said he’d still be watching over me. He’d be, like, invisible but here, like a shadow or something. I liked the idea at first, then I thought what if he’s watching me when I’m, like, picking my nose, or on the toilet, or …” Brett and Josh are silent as they consider the enormity of this thought. I don’t think they like the idea of being spied on in their private moments, even by a celestial being or grandparent. Brett’s the first to respond, “Maybe you have to ask, you know, if you’re having problems with something … your homework or if you’re in trouble with your mum. So you, like, send out this … message … and your grandad or whoever picks it up and helps you work it out.” I like this idea; I want to believe it. I smile, “Hey, when I’m gone you two can ask me for help with maths and getting chicks and stuff.” “Yeah, right,” says Josh, “as if you’d be much use.” “He must be doing something right if Emily fancies him.” Brett points out. “See?” I wave a hand in front of Josh’s face. “Just don’t ask me when you’re sitting on the bog with a finger up your nose.” Josh pulls a face. “Now look at him,” Brett says, “he’s gone all grumpy.” “Yeah,” I say, “he’s probably got his period.” Josh’s scowl disappears in a flash and is replaced by a huge grin. He stretches out one of his long arms and grabs a block of chocolate off the floor. “In that case you’d better let me have all the chocolate. Otherwise I’ll get angry, and you won’t like it if I get angry.” He twists his mouth into a snarl and crosses his eyes, it’s supposed to be scary but it looks silly. Brett dives on him and wrestles him for the chocolate. I yell encouraging comments from the comfort of the couch: “Pull his ears off, Brett.” “That’s right, knee him in the nuts.” “Stick your fingers up his nose, Josh.” The result is a draw, the block of chocolate is broken more or less cleanly in half. Brett snaps off a chunk and hands it to me before popping a few squares into his mouth. My hand is halfway to my mouth before I realise I can’t eat it. All these weeks I’ve longed for chocolate, now the smell of it makes me sick.
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Chapter 58 2 September Gran bought me the latest “South Park” DVD even though she thinks it’s a bit rude. Mum bought me a pillowcase with Hartman’s face on it. Said they’d sold all the Stan ones. I don’t know how I’ll feel about sleeping cheek to cheek with Cartman. Guess it’ll be OK.
Mum’s going into work tomorrow so Gran’s looking after me. Gran said we can watch DVDs all day and eat pizza and chocolate. Mum said Gran’s a bad influence on me. I said she’s the one who needs looking after not me.
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Chapter 59 Neville shakes my hand and gives Adam a quick hug, a huge smile lighting up his round face. It’s a kind face, with a large knobbly nose and eyes almost the same colour as Adam’s. His eyebrows are his most striking feature. I have to force myself not to stare. They have gone seriously feral, either that or they were knitted by an elderly aunt with a vision impairment. The café’s busy and the noise makes conversation difficult. “I wish I’d picked somewhere less popular.” Adam says. I pat his hand. “It’s all right. Anyway, we’ve ordered now.” Adam will have to wait until we’ve finished lunch. Then he’ll offer to drive his father home. We can tell him on the way. The food arrives; the portions are small and at room temperature so we finish eating quickly. Adam has his credit card out before his father can get his hand in his jacket pocket and there’s some gentle jostling over who should pay. In the end it was agreed that Adam would pay and Neville would drop a few coins in the jar for tips. Adam waits until we’re out of Civic before speaking. “Dad … Maggie and I have something to tell you.” Adam flicks me a sideways look. I give his leg a gentle squeeze, I don’t want to distract him when he’s driving. “What is it, son?” “Maggie and me … well, we’re having a baby.” As Adam had predicted, Neville is delighted, shouting so loud Adam almost lets go of the wheel. “Oh, son, that’s great news.” “There’s something else, Dad, something that’s not so great.” Neville listens in silence while Adam tells him about Sam. When he’d finished, Neville stares out of the side window for a few minutes. “I’m sorry to hear that, Maggie … Adam. I wish you’d told me sooner,” he leans over the front seat, his face between ours, “you don’t have to handle this on your own, you know.” Now it’s my turn to be teary. “Thanks, Dad.” Adam says, “How do you think Mum will take it?” Neville sucks air through his teeth and lets it out in a big sigh. “I dunno, but we’d better get it over with as soon as possible.” “And there’s no time like the present, right?”
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Telling Adam’s mother wasn’t as bad as I’d thought. Joy has a big smile on her face when she opens the door. She’s tiny, nothing to be scared of. “Pregnant? Oh dear.” Joy’s face has a far off look. Perhaps she’s imagining everything that could go wrong before her grandchild was born. She turns to Adam, her expression troubled. “Are you getting married?” Adam smiles and grips my hand tighter, “If she’ll have me.” “Of course she’ll have you,” Joy turns to face me, “won’t you Maggie? He’s a good catch.” I nod, too stunned to speak. Adam clears his throat, “There’s something else I have to tell you.” “What?” Joy turns to face Adam. “What’s wrong?” “Sam’s got cancer, Mum, a malignant brain tumour … there’s nothing anyone can do.” “Cancer?” Joy’s face collapses like a punctured balloon. “Poor little thing.” She moves towards me and we put our arms around each other, two women sharing the common pain of motherhood. “How long has he got?” she asks. Adam shakes his head. “Could be six months. Maybe more. We’re hoping he’ll hang on till the baby’s born.”
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Chapter 60 11 September Adam came round last night. He taught me how to play backgammon. It’s like a grown up version of draughts. Adam said in the old days people used to bet lots of money on it. I asked him to show me how it worked but he said mum would never speak to him again if she caught him teaching me bad habits. Bet he was afraid I’d beat him.
14 September Mum and me played chess last night. She looked sad. Said she was tired, said the baby’s burning up all her energy. It must be weird, having a baby growing inside you, a bit like cancer.
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Chapter 61 Sunday; the most beautiful day of the week. Despite everything that’s going on in my life, there’s still something special about Sundays. What’s that line in South Park that Sam’s always quoting? Another Sunday morning in my quiet mountain town. Canberra’s not really a mountain town but it is ringed by mountains, and it is quiet. Some of Sam’s friends are coming over later today for afternoon tea to say bon voyage before we go on our trip to Paris. Mum’s done a lot of baking. She’s been busy all weekend. She made meringues last night and she’s in the kitchen right now whipping up cream and chopping fruit for mini Pavlovas. Sam’s taken over the couch leaving plenty of floor space for his friends. Brett and Josh arrive together, followed minutes later by Emily, Zac and Ben. Deek and Abi are the last to arrive. They look coy and avoid eye contact with each other, trying not to look like a couple. Sweet young things. Mum and I carry in the food and wait on our guests like geishas. I wasn’t eavesdropping but I did hear Josh say he’s drawn up a list of things Sam must do when he’s in Paris. Emily said she’s written a list too. It’ll be interesting to compare lists. Sam’s fighting sleep by the time everyone leaves but he has a smile on his face. I leave him dozing in the lounge room and go to help Mum in the kitchen. I’m glad Brett and Josh had come over, they made sure there are no leftovers. I’m stacking the dishwasher and running through my mental list of what I have to do before the trip when Mum drops her bombshell, telling me she’s going to take more leave when we get back. We both know why. I can’t concentrate on the dishes so I leave them to Mum while I go off to the bathroom for a quick cry. When I’ve calmed down I go back into the kitchen and fill the kettle. “No more tea for me,” Mum says, “or I’ll spend the entire flight on the loo.” Trust Mum, I think, as I burst out laughing. “What’s so funny?” Sam shouts from the lounge room. I walk in and sit next to him on the couch. Mum follows, clutching a mug of tea. I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist. “Gran was saying how well it went … everyone seemed to have a good time.” Sam smacks his lips although he’d only nibbled his food. “Sure did. Brett said he had seven of them pavlova things and Josh had eleven.” Sam looks at his gran. “How many did you make?” “Twenty four,” Mum says with a smile. “I wasn’t keeping score, you understand, but I couldn’t help noticing that Deek and Zac had three each and Emily and Abi shared one. I don’t know how many your mum had, Sam, but I know she had at least two. Oh, and I had
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one as well.” Mum does a quick count on her fingers. “Looks to me like someone’s not telling the whole truth.” Sam smiles back. “That’d be Josh.” Mum shakes her head. “That’s what I thought. He looks like a boy whose eyes are bigger than his belly.” Sam points a finger at me. “In that case Mum must’ve eaten more than everyone. Look at the size of her belly.” “Hey, less of that, I’m barely showing.” We spend the rest of the night packing. Adam has offered to drive us to the airport so he’s been appointed keeper of the passports, traveller’s cheques, and boarding passes. Rhonda and Gerard are coming along too, to see us off. Ron, my next-door neighbour, is going to look after Lady while we’re away. There’s nothing left to do except lie awake wondering what I’ve forgotten.
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Chapter 62 5 — 6 October Hannah arranged everything. She contacted one of those organisations that help sick kids get their special wish. I told her we could pay but she said it would be better if they organised it cos they get special discounts. There have to be some advantages in being sick.
The flight was v. long but the cabin crew were v. kind and asked the pilot if I could visit the cockpit. That was so fresh!!!! The pilot said it’s almost 17,000 km from Sydney to Paris. That’s about 22 hours flying via Singapore at an average air speed of 500 mph. Awesome!!!!
I got the window seat which was cool but I had to squash past everybody every time I went to the toilet. We got meals on the plane in little plastic tray things. I got mine first because I had a special meal. We could’ve watched a movie after dinner but Mum and I had already seen it so we played travel scrabble. I won for a change. Wonder if she let me win.
When the movie finished the cabin crew dimmed the lights so we could go to sleep. They handed out pillows and blankets. I didn’t think I’d sleep but I squashed my pillow against the window and I was soon asleep. When I woke up the sun had started to rise. Gran was sitting next to Mum, snoring and leaning on the shoulder of the guy next to her, his head on top of hers. He was built like a fullback. It was weird seeing the pair of them snuggling up together.
Light was creeping around the edge of the window so I opened the blind and watched the clouds change from grey to pink as red streaks stretched across the sky. The clouds were soft and pink and fluffy like fairy floss. They were beautiful. Wish I had my camera. They made me feel funny inside, like I wanted to cry or something. Is this what heaven will be like?
I must have fallen asleep again because I woke up with Mum’s head on top of mine. The guy at the end still had his head on Gran’s shoulder. I sat up, careful not to wake Mum. All I could see was clouds, a sea of them, like snow, or big lumps of icing sugar. Or icebergs. I wouldn’t mind going to the Antarctic. One of Mum’s friends went there for 3 months. Said he didn’t change his underpants the whole time he was there.
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I’ve only been to the snow twice. Once when I was nine and Gran and Grandpa took me and Mum to Thredbo. It was fun. We went up the chairlift to the top of Kosciusko. It was so cold my ears started burning. My hands were freezing and Gran gave me her gloves. Said her hands weren’t cold. Grandpa and I went tobogganing and Mum and Gran had a go. Gran got her foot stuck in a wombat hole and was wet from the knee down. She spent the rest of the afternoon in a café huddled round the fire and drinking hot chocolate with marshmallows.
The other time was when I was in Year 6. Most of us couldn’t ski so we had lessons while a few others, including Jeremy Nichols, went on the proper ski runs. The best bit was when Jeremy broke his ankle and had to come home in an ambulance.
Singapore airport is like this gigantic shopping mall, all glass and escalators like a space city. There are hundreds of shops and restaurants and even a swimming pool. We stayed at one of the airport hotels and had room service. Awesome!! In the morning we did a quick tour of Singapore before we had to catch the plane to Paris. We had a ride on a bumboat (yeah, that’s what they’re called) along the Singapore River. We saw this great big statue of a Merlion (half lion, half fish) and the Raffles Hotel (Mum thought that was so cool but it’s just an ordinary looking building). The only interesting bit was when the guide told us a teacher once shot a tiger that had walked into the hotel. Can’t see Ms Connor doing that.
I got the window seat again and this time I saw the sun set. The top of the clouds turned deep pink, a red line edging the horizon. I could see out of the window on the opposite side of the plane and the red line was there. We were flying over the edge of the world.
The clouds slowly turned grey, stretching out forever, rippling like waves on a stormy sea. I asked Mum how she’d describe them and she said they looked like soap scum. I said that’s not very poetic and she laughed, said that poem of Emily’s had brought out the poet in me. I said the clouds were like an enormous tin roof covering the world. Mum said they looked like furrows in a ploughed field, or the wrinkles on Gran’s forehead. Good job she was still asleep!
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7 October I told Brett and Josh about the trip and they were seriously jealous. Brett said it was like that episode on “South Park” when this woman from the “Make-A-Wish Foundation” asks Kenny what he’d wish for if he could have one wish. Kenny says the only thing he’d wish for is that he doesn’t have to die. So the woman thinks about it then says, well, if you could have two wishes, what would the second one be?
I said my second wish is to visit Euro Disney so here we are in the la belle Français, that’s what Ms Connor said I should call it. I suppose it’s not so bad being in Paris. All I need to make it perfect is to find Emily in my room, lying on the bed, wearing a silky slippery thing, a bottle of champagne soaking in a bucket of ice.
Hannah bought me this travel journal (yes, another journal but this one doesn’t have as many pages as the one Mum bought) and there are little pockets for maps and postcards and stuff so I can show her when I get back. It’s cool. I wish she could’ve come with us. At least I got to bring Mum and Gran. Adam’s going to come too but it’s a secret. He paid for Gran to come, she’s so excited, she said she’s never been to Europe before, never been out of Australia, and here we are in Paris. The romance capital of the world so Mum keeps saying. She still has that sad look but Adam will soon make her smile.
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Chapter 63 “How are you, Sam?” I hate people asking me how I feel but here I am asking Sam the same question. “Fine,” he says, grinning, “like another Sunday morning in my quiet mountain town.” I grin back. Sam ducks as I flap at hand at him, as if I would, or could, hit him. We’ve been in Paris for four days now and Sam’s having a ball. Everyone’s so kind. It’s wonderful watching him enjoying himself. I just wish it was an ordinary family holiday. He looks tired now but there’ll be plenty of time to rest when we get home. Plenty of time. Sam’s staring out of the hotel window; a noisy crowd is making its way down the middle of the road. Young people, probably students, carrying banners and chanting — wish I knew what they were saying — car horns are blaring and people are shouting. It looks harmless but I’m glad we’re out of the way. I turn to look at him, taking in the pale bruising around his eye, his baldhead with a few scraps of hair, milky-white skin stretched taut across his bones like a death mask. I try to cancel that last thought but it lingers like a persistent cobweb in the dark corners of my mind, staring out at me through the empty spaces in our conversation. Sam continues to stare at me, a smile stretching the corners of his pale lips. I force myself to meet his eyes, trying to ignore the pigeon-grey shadows that stretch from his lower lid to his pinched-in nostrils. These same unblinking eyes; the same colour as mine, had stared at me when he was a newborn. My stomach tightens, the umbilicus joining us tighter than ever. I’d got used to swallowing my tears but now I had to work extra hard to keep them from spilling out. I grip both Sam’s hands, his fingers tightening around mine and between us we manage to scrape up a smile. “Mum?” I blink away my tears.” Yes?” “It’s not that bad … I mean … there are worse ways to die.” Where did that come from? “I could get hit by a truck … like Dad.” I’m icy cold. I watch the morgue attendant draw back a white sheet to reveal Tim’s face. I wonder what’s happened to the truck driver. How did he feel when he saw Tim’s mangled body, blood spuming, limbs twitching during the few minutes it took him to die. The police said the truckie had fallen asleep at the wheel. He was charged with dangerous driving
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and got a fine and a suspended sentence. I would’ve killed him if it had been Sam under the sheet instead of Tim. I start shivering, seeing Sam’s body on the slab. At least it would be a quick death. BANG. All over. Not like this. Longing for it to be all over but knowing that the only way it will end is when Sam dies.
“I hadn’t thought about it but you’re right, I guess there are worse ways.” I struggle to think of something horrific, something even more terrible than cancer, but it’s not easy. While I struggle to think of something, Sam’s imagination is running riot. “I could get eaten alive by fire ants, or choke to death on a fish bone.” At last I remember a suitably poignant and unusual way to die: “What about that 16 year old boy with a nut allergy?” I ask. “His girlfriend kissed him after eating a peanut butter sandwich … and he … died.” I can see Sam thinking about it, weighing it up, wondering if perhaps that’s not such a bad way to go. Suddenly he grins. “Josh said he’d like to be shot by a jealous lover.”
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Chapter 64 8 October We had a quiet day, checking out a few places. We had lunch in this little café, it was v. expensive. Then we went for cruise along the Seine. It was OK but the water’s v. dirty and smelly.
AND, guess who was waiting for us when we got back to the hotel? Adam!! Mum was soooooooo surprised but Gran knew he was coming. I was worried in case Mum got mad cos I’d invited him but it turned out OK. That’s one of the advantages of being sick, your mum can’t yell at you!!!
Mum keeps walking about singing this awful song called “Autumn in Paris”. She’s a terrible singer but Adam doesn’t seem to mind.
The hotel is amazing, very posh, with servants everywhere. We had room service last night and this girl came in this morning after breakfast to make the beds and tidy up. She called me “monsieur” (I hope I’ve spelt it right). She pronounced it “miss-your”, with a silent “n”. Adam says it means “my lord”. I like that, being called “monsieur”, especially the way Aimee says it.
Gran told me Hannah said Adam offered to pay for our trip cos he has so much money but Hannah said it was all taken care of, at least as far as Mum and me were concerned. Adam paid for Gran and himself and he gave Hannah a cheque (she wouldn’t tell Gran how much) so some other families who weren’t so well off could give their kids a wish.
9 October Today I finally got to go to Euro Disney. Yeah!!! My most favourite rides are: 1. Big Thunder Mountain — the best seats are at the back. 2. Pirates of the Caribbean, especially if you can get a front seat . The receptionist at our hotel told us we could save about 300 metres of walking if we sneaked through the wooden doors to the left of the entrance. We did, but we made sure there was no one watching. 3. Phantom Manor, that’s like a ghost train. It’s pretty cool but it'd be too scary for little kids.
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4. Indiana Jones and the Temple of Peril. This one’s v. fast and has some tight bends. This was one of the few rides we had to queue for but I didn’t mind waiting to get on cos there’s some interesting stuff to look at while you wait, like these really old tents and trucks that look real – perhaps they are real. 5. Space Mountain – my absolute all time favourite. This is an amazingly fast ride and it’s a good idea not to eat before you go on or you could lose your lunch.
Adam came on the rides with me. Gran and Mum said they were happy to watch. I think Mum’s worried cos she’s pregnant, all that jiggling around and stuff might damage the baby. I keep thinking about the baby, wondering whether it’s a boy or a girl and if I’ll get to see it.
Mum thought she might like to go on the teacup ride cos it looked safe but I said it was too fast and perhaps she’d better not. Adam persuaded her not to do it. I was glad cos I didn’t want her throwing up on me. Mum and Adam watched while Gran and I went on. Gran hung on to me all the time. I think it was scarier than she thought. Nobody was keen on going on Space Mountain but I persuaded Adam to come with me. Mum wasn’t keen on letting me go on the ride but I said what’s the worst thing that could happen to me? I could get killed. Adam said it was the scariest thing he’s ever done. He said a few rude words on the ride but I promised not to tell Mum.
The food was pretty good, the only “bad” things we ate were toffee apples. Gran broke most of the toffee off her apple cos she said she didn’t want to lose her crown. She meant the crown on her tooth.
10 October Didn’t do much today. I was totally stuffed after yesterday. Me and Gran flopped around watching French TV (cartoons are the same in any language) and snoring (Gran was doing the snoring, not me). Mum and Adam went out and when they came back they were all lovey dovey.
I wish Emily was here.
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11 October Today was better. We went for a walk on the Left Bank and watched the artists. I posed for a drawing, Mum said it looked like me. We’re having room service again tonight.
12 October We did Notre Dame today. Notre Dame means “our lady”. It’s a great big church, over 800 years old, that’s v. old. It’s on this island in the middle of the Seine. We had to go over a bridge called Pont Neuf, which means new bridge. That’s strange cos it’s over 500 years old.
We went up this spiral staircase to the bell tower. There were millions of steps and Adam had to carry me most of the way. We were totally stuffed when we got to the top. It was worth it to see the gargoyles. Weird stone animals, meant to guard the tower from evil spirits. They’re totally gross, one looked like it was eating a cat. I didn’t see the hunchback, though.
I like Paris, there’s so much to see I wish I had more than one pair of eyes so I could see it all at once.
13 October I promised Gran we’d go to the Louvre while we were here and today’s the big day. The building is amazing with this great big glass pyramid at the front, like in that movie.
I didn’t want to go but I’m glad I did. It’s huge and full of this really old stuff. Must be worth zillions. It was good seeing the Mona Lisa in real life. I didn’t realise she’d have a whole room to herself. See, everyone calls the painting “she” not “it”. There was a long line of people waiting to see it/her but we got to go to the front cos we had this special pass. You should’ve seen their faces when this guide told them to move so we could get through with my wheelchair. Unreal!!!
The best bit was all these mummies and things. And drawings. I didn’t know they have hippos in Egypt. They must’ve been rich too cos they had all this gold and jewellery. I’d like to go to Egypt and sail down the Nile, see the sphinxes and the pyramids. Must remember to ask Mum if we can go there if I get better. The Egyptians used to write in pictures, like stick figures, and people were buried with all this stuff they’d need in the afterlife. They had models of servants that would become real and look after their masters. I like that idea.
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14 October Today we went up the Eiffel Tower. Once again, we jumped the queue. Good job cos it could take hours to get to the front. Having a terminal illness isn’t all bad!
We got to go right to the top, too, as far as you can go. There was a notice at the bottom saying we could only go to the second level but when we got there they let us go up to the next level. Paris looked like Legoland. There’s a restaurant inside and shops and the most expensive toilet in the world. At least that’s what Mum said and I guess she’d know cos she had to go when we were up there. Now she’s pregnant she has to go all the time.
The lift’s slow but it’s better than climbing all those stairs. It’s over 300 metres tall so imagine how many steps there are!!!!!
Then we got a taxi driver to drive us around and around the Arc de Triomphe. It’s like this great big roundabout and we couldn’t get off. It’s amazing. All these cars blowing their horns and bumping into each other, like dodgem cars, and nobody stops if they hit another car. The taxi driver blew the horn and kept going. I had my fingers crossed hoping the other cars stayed out of our way.
According to the guidebook, the Arc (that’s French for arch) was built about 200 years ago by Napoleon. He didn’t actually build it, he got someone else to do it. It’s supposed to be a tribute to the French army. The idea is that soldiers can march up and down waving tall spears, which is why the arch is so big. Sounds cool, I wish I could see them marching. The Arc stands in the middle of the “Place du Général de Gaulle” – I copied the name from the guidebook, I’ve tried saying it but I’m not sure if I’ve got it right. Adam said I should write it phonetically so I’ll know how to say it when I get home, well, here goes, it sounds like plass duh jeneral doo goal.
I can say other words in French, like “merci” (thank you), bonjour (g’day), “Je suis trés fatigue”, that means I’m very tired and gets me lots of sympathy, must be the bald head! Best of all is “Je ne parle pas Français” which means I don’t speak French! That comes in v. handy. Like when I went into this shop and when I’d decided what I wanted I held out a handful of Euros and said “combien” (how much). I knew the shop assistant wouldn’t rip off a sick kid. I felt “trés Parisian”!!!
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15 October We did the Palace of Versailles today. It used to be the official residence of the Kings of France from 1682 until 1790. It’s about a half hour drive outside Paris. Adam hired a car. He said it was weird driving on the right side of the road cos that’s the wrong side of the road! There were some v. aggressive drivers, talk about road rage! I was glad I was sitting in the back with Gran. OK so I’m a wuss, so what’s new?
The palace is v. impressive, and the gardens are supposed to be world famous. I suppose it’s OK if you like looking at gardens. Gran does and she was v. impressed. Mum and Adam strolled around like they owned the place. I sat and watched the grass grow. The flowers smelt nice and all these butterflies were flying around. There were a lot of gardeners doing what they do. It didn’t look like they have any water restrictions.
16 October Our second last night, and it’s Adam’s birthday. We went somewhere v. posh for dinner. I can’t remember the name of the restaurant, or what I ate. Mum said it’s the best restaurant in Paris. I could tell she was having a good time, her eyes were shining and she kept looking at Adam. Adam said he never thought he’d be spending his birthday in the most romantic city in the world. I didn’t know what to say so I said I’d have to come back when I’m older. I wanted to say I’d come back with a girl, but it sounded soppy. I saw the way Mum and Gran looked at each other. I know what they were thinking.
I want to go home.
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Chapter 65 I’m glad Adam’s here. No, that’s not right, I’m more than glad. Mum’s glad. Sam’s ecstatic, I’m deliriously, wonderfully happy. We had dinner at Maxim’s for Adam’s birthday. After dinner Adam sent Sam and Mum back to the hotel in a taxi. He told the driver to take the scenic route. He gave Mum a fistful of money to pay the fare, it looked more than enough to buy a small car. We’re sitting at the bar, Adam nursing a small cognac, me with yet another glass of Evian water. I watch people walk past: young couples fused together, older couples holding hands, families with young children trailing behind, and the occasional lone jogger. I feel as if I belong to this slow, endlessly shifting swirl of humanity. After we finish our drinks we go for a walk, strolling hand in hand. We stop on the banks of the Seine for one last look over the city. It’s like fairyland; I could stay here forever. “It’s a shame we have to go home.” Adam says, echoing my thoughts. I nod, those troublesome tears springing into my eyes. Adam lifts my hands to his lips and kisses them. Then, still holding my hands, he drops onto one knee. “Will you marry me?” His eyes hold mine, I shake my head. “I can’t.” I want to say “not yet” perhaps not ever, I’ve not had much luck with men; they either die or walk out on me. I stand there, head bowed, waiting for the axe to fall. Adam gets up and puts his arm around my shoulder. “That’s okay. I can wait.” I pat his hand and he grips my fingers. We walk slowly back to the hotel, our arms around each other.
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Chapter 66 17 October Gran woke up in a bad mood this morning. I tried to cheer up her by asking what she and Sleeping Beauty have in common. She just grunted, her face closed tight like Josh’s wallet. I said cos you both wake up grumpy. She smiled but it wasn’t a real smile. She was just stretching her lips. There’s a rude version of that joke. I wonder if she’d laugh at that.
When I went to bed last night I heard Gran picking on Mum. I don’t think they knew I was awake. I could hear them arguing on the balcony. I think they were talking about me cos Mum kept saying it wasn’t my fault and Gran said she knew that. It was all too much for her, she said, she wants to run away. I know how she feels. I want to run away too.
18 October On our way to the airport Mum decided to practice her “positive thinking” techniques. (I’m not sure if I’ve spelled “practice” right. I hope Ms Collins doesn’t read this.) Mum shouldn’t bother, she’s no good at pretending. She said there’s always hope the tumour will decide to shrivel up and die, or it might stop growing for years and years. I don’t know whether I like the idea of it going to sleep. I’d be walking around not knowing if it’s going to start growing again. It’d be like having a time bomb inside your head tick tick ticking until one day it goes BOOM!!!
I told Mum that Hannah said a tumour’s like a worm in an apple. Mum said I used to have a pet worm when I was a kid. She said I called it Jeremy. I don’t remember. I think she made it up.
19 October We’re home. Yeah!!!!!
21 October Mum says she’s going away again. While we were in Paris some of her work mates came round and tidied up the garden. Not as grand as Versailles but heaps better than the jungle we had before.
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Chapter 67 I don’t know which is worse, leaving Sam or having dinner with Adam’s parents. I’ve been dreading it all day. I kept snapping at Mum and couldn’t concentrate on what Sam was saying. I keep asking myself why does Adam’s mother make me feel so … inadequate? I’d planned to spend a couple of hours getting ready but in the end I spend the time with Sam instead, hopping under the shower and getting dressed minutes before Adam’s due to pick me up. Adam looks gorgeous in a charcoal grey turtleneck jumper and tight black jeans. When he gives me that wicked grin I have to stop myself from leaping on him there and then. Mum scurries off to the kitchen when Adam arrives, mumbling something about burning onions. I’d noticed a strange smell but I hadn’t connected it to Mum’s cooking. She’s usually not a bad cook. Perhaps she’s like me, not wanting to leave Sam even for a few minutes. Now I have to leave him for a few hours. I bend over his chair and gently kiss his cheek. “I won’t be late. You’ll be all right?” Sam flaps a hand at me. “Course, I’ll be fine. Gran’s making spag bol …” “Burning it, more like,” Adam says. Sam grins, “Yeah, well, I’m sure she’ll manage to make something edible.” He nods towards the cupboard where we keep the board games. “Then I’m going to thrash her at Monopoly.” “I haven’t played for ages,” I say, “not since we went camping with Gran and Grandpa.” “I know,” Sam says, “it was fun. Especially when Gran and Grandpa’s airbed went down in the middle of the night.” Still laughing I say goodbye to Mum and follow Adam out to the car. I try to pretend I’m not nervous but I’m glad he’s holding my hand when we reach his parents’ front door otherwise I might run off into the night.
Joy fusses around with my jacket and asks how I am, and Sam, then she leads the way into the lounge room. “Here, sit down,” she says, indicating a large squishy couch. I sit down carefully, afraid I might get swallowed up.
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“Dinner won’t be long,” Joy says, dashing back to what I assume is the kitchen. Adam lowers himself onto the couch, sinking into the seat; his long legs bent beneath him like a stick insect’s. Neville smiles, then, perhaps, remembering his duties as a host, shoots up out of his seat. “What can I get you to drink? Adam? Maggie?” Adam says he’d have a light beer while I ask for water. Neville seems happy as he trundles off for the drinks. He returns minutes later with a small round tray that he places on a low chunky-looking coffee table. No sooner does he sit down than Joy comes in, wiping her hands on her pristine white apron. “Dinner’s ready.” We follow her into the dining room and once again she fusses over me, pulling out the chair, waiting until I sit down before trying to push it under the table. She’s so small I feel like a hippo. When she’s satisfied that I’m sitting comfortably, she returns to the kitchen. I don’t know what she’s cooking but it smells better than whatever Sam and Mum are having. “I’m afraid it’s just something simple,” Joy says, handing round elegant china bowls two-thirds full of chicken consommé topped with garlic croutons. This is followed by melt-in-the-mouth fillet mignon with oven-roasted vegetables and sautéed artichoke hearts. Dessert is lemon sorbet, deliciously light and tangy. I wonder what they eat when it isn’t something simple.
Adam and I are a few minutes from home when my mobile rings. We turn around and head for the hospital. It seems Sam was on a winning streak and he’d just bought his third hotel when he started vomiting. He was shaking so badly he’d knocked the game off the table, spilling his winnings onto the floor.
We arrive at the hospital to find Sam hooked up to the usual equipment. He looks pale but he smiles when he sees us. Adam makes a fist and he and Sam do the knuckle thing, followed by a high five. “Gotta go, young man, see you tomorrow,” Adam pauses and looks at his watch, “make that later today.” He gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, his eyes holding mine for a few seconds, then he’s gone.
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I sit at the side of Sam’s bed, nearly tripping over Mum’s enormous shoulder bag. Mum sees me stumble and picks up her bag. From the look on her face she’s forgotten how heavy it is. She peers inside and pulls out a largish package. “I forgot to give you this, Sam. Some of your friends dropped it off.” I help Sam open his present, silently cursing whoever had wrapped it; they hadn’t skimped on the sticky tape. Inside is a Terry Pratchett book, a bottle of creaming soda, yet another hand-knitted beanie in stomach-churning maroon and mustard stripes to add to his collection, and a badly folded T-shirt. Sam holds up the shirt. It’s decorated with a grinning cartoon cat and the legend: Nine lives and I get to lick my own balls. Sam screws up the offending garment and stuffs it back in the bag. “Don’t you like it?” I ask. Sam gives me one of his looks. “I wouldn’t be seen dead in it.” There’s a pin-dropping silence then Mum says: “At least we know not to send you off wearing that.” This time the silence hangs in the air like a living beast, its hot clammy breath snaking round my shoulders, sliding between my breasts. Then Sam laughs, a short, sharp snort, growing stronger, louder. Mum joins in; then it’s my turn. I laugh until my belly aches and tears run down my face.
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Chapter 68 “Hey, Sam, that thing you’ve got, what’s it called? You know? An epy … epy …momma.” I laugh. “You dork. For your information it’s an ependymoma. The doc calls it a big momma. They’re very rare. No one knows why I lucked out. Guess I must be special.” I’m back in hospital. Mum said the holiday has drained me so here I am, hooked up to a saline drip to get my fluid levels up. Adam said it’s like topping up water in a car’s radiator. Keeps the engine running. Adam’s got a great new car, a silver Porsche Cayenne. Mum said it’s named after Cayenne pepper because it’s so hot. I don’t know whether to believe her but the car sure looks hot. We hired a Renault convertible when we were in Paris, a zippy little thing. Adam took me for a ride with the top down. Told me not to tell Mum how fast we’d gone. As if reading my mind, Josh asks, “How do you feel about coming back in here after your trip? Bet you barely had time to unpack.” “No need to go on, I get the message. I told you I bought you something. You’ll have to wait till I get home. I don’t want Mum going through my bag.” “Why, what else have you got in there?” “None of your business.” I can feel my face redden, I’m not going to tell anyone I’ve brought something back for Emily. Perhaps I won’t even tell her. “It’s not so bad here,” I say, determined to change the subject, “I get my own suite. Not quite as posh as the hotel we stayed at in Paris. The room service’s not as good either.” “What was the best bit?” Brett asks. “The flight was good — we got all these free samples. And I liked Euro Disney and Notre Dame — it’s so spooky. The métro freaked me out and you should see all these cars driving round and round the Arc de Triomphe.” I quickly flip through the mental images I’d stored up. “We went to this show at the Moulin Rouge. That was pretty cool.” “Ooooh,” leers Josh, “I bet it is cool for the performers. I heard them dancers don’t wear any undies.” Brett slaps him. I laugh, “I am so not telling you if that’s true.” I wait but Josh doesn’t respond. “There was this comedian. American. He was seriously funny. I laughed my head off.” “Hey,” Josh says, “that’s one way to get rid of your cancer, if your head fell off.” Brett and I stare at him. Josh stares back. “You look terrible, Sam,” he says, “your face is all grey and lumpy-looking like the porridge my gran makes.”
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“Thanks.” “Well, you do. Do you ever worry about it? Dying I mean?” “Nah, not really. Nothing I can do.” “What do you think it’ll be like? Being dead?” “Dunno, I’ll find out when it happens.” Josh nods, “Yeah, I wish we could, like, be frozen before we die and get sent into space, or something. We’d come back in a zillion years and get defrosted.” “You’re such a dork,” I say. “Why d’ya keep calling me a dork?” “Do you know what a dork is?” I ask. Josh shakes his head. “It’s a whale’s penis.” “Is it?” “Yeah,” adds Brett, “and whales have really huge dicks so when you call someone a “dork” you’re calling them a big dick. How cool is that.” “How do you know?” Josh isn’t convinced; he’s been tricked before. “I Googled it, you dork.” I reply. Josh relaxes, recognising the omnipotent power of the search engine. “Yeah,” I concede, “but it doesn’t exactly say it’s a whale’s penis, just that people think it is.” Josh smiles doubtfully, he’s not sure if this means he’s right after all. There’s a few moments of silence while Josh considers his next move. “Are you sure you’re not frightened?” he asks boldly. Brett jumps in, “Josh, leave it.” “It’s okay,” I say, smiling my bravest smile. “And?” Josh persists. “Yeah, I guess I am frightened.” Josh thinks for a minute, his forehead creased in concentration, making him look like a little old man, then his face brightens. “Maybe it’s like Cartman says, heaven’s, like, full of fairies in a bubblegum forest.” I give this idea some thought. “Dunno if I’d like that, I’m not big on fairies or bubblegum.” Josh, his face anxious, asks: “What do you like then?” “You mean instead of fairies or bubblegum?”
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“Both.” “I think I’ll skip the fairies, I’ll have some bikini babes instead.” “Cool,” says Josh. “Hot,” adds Brett. “And I’ll have a chocolate tree instead of bubblegum, with different kinds of chocolate so I could pick what I want and it wouldn’t make me sick.” I pause, thinking some more: “Maybe it’ll be like the movies, you know? Great big fluffy white clouds like fairy floss, endless sunshine, people lazing around.” “Sounds like Queensland.” I don’t notice Hannah slip into the room. Josh laughs and Hannah joins in, her teeth flashing as her smile lights up the room. “What’re you boys up to?” I shrug. “Nothing, just talking.” Hannah picks up my hand and checks my pulse. “Yep, looks like you’re still alive,” she says, letting go of my hand, “And you boy,” she says turning towards Josh, “you can stop looking like a sick sheep.” We laugh until I start coughing which makes me laugh even more. When she’s gone Josh says, “Pity you can’t do what they’d do in South Park.” “What’s that?” “Get some homeless guy to die for you.” I’m sure Hannah can hear us hooting with laughter as she walks down the corridor.
When Josh and Brett had gone, Hannah comes to check on me. “Hannah, will you do something for me?” “Anything.” Hannah says with a grin. “Well, I asked Mum if she’d bought anything for the baby but she hasn’t. Nothing. It worried me when she said that.” Hannah sits on the edge of the bed, concern clouding her eyes. She holds my hand, stroking my palm with her thumb. “Don’t worry, Sam, your mum’s got plenty of time.” I remove my hand and start fiddling with the blankets. “I know, it’s — well, I thought she might not want to get stuff yet — in case I get upset or something.” I look at Hannah, holding her eyes. “I’m not upset, honest, in fact I want to buy something for the baby.” I pull
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out my wallet from under my pillow, “Look, I’ve got money.” I show Hannah a collection of notes, “over a hundred dollars.” Hannah takes the notes and stands up, straightening her uniform. “I’ll pop into Myer’s on the way home.” “Thanks,” I say, sliding further down the bed. I’m tired. Hannah straightens my blankets and stuffs the money I’ve given her into her pocket. “Don’t worry,’ Hannah says, “I’ll get this baby something special.”
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Chapter 69 Mr Cruickshank looks every inch a solicitor, almost a caricature. It’s hard to imagine him as a small boy with a grubby face and grazed knees. He’s tall and cadaverous with hawk features, thick, sensuous lips and pale watery eyes. He must have a head cold, or an allergy, or something, because he sniffs noisily every 15 seconds. Perhaps he doesn’t know, or care, how irritating it is. His name – C C Cruickshank – makes him sound like a fictional character, something Dickensian. His first name’s Charles; I wonder what his middle name is? Perhaps Cedric or Cyril or something dashing like Clint or Casanova. Mr Cruickshank holds out a hand. I take it thinking it will be cold and clammy but it’s dry and firm. He opens the door to his office and stands aside so I can go in first. It’s a small, narrow room with a high ceiling – a tall narrow room for a tall narrow man. There’s a large desk in front of a long narrow window. A cunning plan, this way he has his back to the window while the light streaming through the window blinds his clients. Not that there’s much danger of that today, the sky is overcast and the grey walls and carpet seem to absorb what little light filters through the pale grey blinds. There are two narrow chairs in front of the desk covered in pale blue fabric. He pulls one out and I sit down while he squeezes himself around the desk and folds himself into his own equally narrow chair at the other side of the desk. He mumbles something but I’m not listening. He leans forward and puts out a hand. “Mrs MacAllister?” “Sorry, I was miles away. What did you say?” “We were talking about your will. You want to make guardianship arrangements for your son in the event that something, ah, unfortunate should happen to you.” He pauses and licks his thick, fleshy lips, his tongue poking out like a frog about to eat a particular juicy insect. “This is — um — somewhat unusual given your son’s — um — current condition.” I take a deep breath and force myself to look into his watery blue eyes. “It’s quite simple,” I say, “I want my mother and Rhonda Tyler to be Sam’s co-guardians. In case anything … happens to me. I’ve asked them,” I continue, “and they’ve agreed.” I look around the room, unable to maintain eye contact. “Besides, I’m not planning on dying yet.” Mum hadn’t been too keen on the idea of being Sam’s guardian. Not at first. She said she’s more likely to die than I am. I reminded her that childbirth still carries some risks and
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accidents can happen. Eventually she agreed. I’ll make another will after the baby’s born. Who knows what will happen between now and then?
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Chapter 70 22 November It’s much easier writing my journal on the laptop. Mum’s going to stick the pages in my proper journal so she’ll have a permanent reminder. She didn’t say that but I think that’s what she means. I don’t mind if she reads it.
Last night I looked at my travel journal. I wrote it when I went to France. It’s got loads of souvenirs in little plastic sleeves. I got them out and spread them on the bed. I pretended I was back there. I got loads of free stuff, most of it from when we were on the plane. That’s one of the perks of flying first class. It was way cool. I bet there’s not many people my age get to travel to Europe first class. We got these things like slippers and tiny tubes of toothpaste.
I got loads of stuff from the hotel like little bottles of shampoo and soap and I bought some postcards and a key ring with a tiny Eiffel Tower on it. I’ve got some great photos too. There’s one of us at the airport when we got home. All these people came to meet us with balloons and flowers. It was like being a rock star or a footballer.
I stuck my passport in the journal. I won’t need it again.
24 November I can watch DVDs on the laptop. The screen’s bigger than the portable DVD player so it’s easier to see. Gran borrowed some old comedy DVDs from the library. I like “The Benny Hill Show” — he’s so gross. Gran said her parents thought he was rude when she was young. Wonder what they’d think of some of the programs on now? I also like “Kath and Kim”. I watched it the other night with Mum and Gran and they laughed so much it made me laugh too. Now I’m really into it.
25 November Mum and Gran have to change me when I mess myself. They say they’ve seen it all before. I tell them it was a long time ago and I’ve grown since then. Gran just laughed.
Adam comes over at night and most mornings if he hasn’t spent the night here to give me a shower. I don’t know why he doesn’t move in.
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Chapter 71 “Mum, what are you doing?” Mum’s dragging a large canvas sack across the family room floor. It’s covered with dust and dried leaves and looks like it contains a medium-sized corpse. The thought makes me shiver. Her face flushed with effort, Mum looks at the trail of litter. “Don’t be such a fuss pot, I’ll clean it up,” she says and goes back to dragging the sack. “What is it? What’s in the bag?” She lets go of the sack and slides open the door. “A tent. You can help set it up.” I help Mum lift the bag outside and we upend it on the back deck. “Come on.” Mum thrusts a pile of folded canvas at me and marches down the steps carrying a mallet and a bag of tent poles. We lay out the frame on the grass and start to assemble it. Many years ago dad had colour-coded the ends of each rod so he could see what fitted where. We have the tent up in no time and Mum goes round happily knocking in tent pegs to hold it in place. I think she would’ve whistled if she knew how. “Are you planning to take up permanent residence here?” Mum snorts, “I promised Sam I’d take him camping, one last night under the stars.” My stomach does a back flip. I sit on a tree stump left in case we need extra seating. Mum sits on another stump. “When are planning to take this trip?” “Tonight.” I nod. “Have you got everything you need?” Mum waves her arm towards the sack. “I brought down our old camping gear. I don’t fancy using the primus, though, and I doubt if Sam could manage on a canvas stool.” We spend the next hour dragging the mattress off the spare bed and stuffing it into the tent. I’m not sure if pregnant women are supposed to drag mattresses around but I have to do it. I find batteries for the torch and a fluorescent light that clips onto the roof of the tent. Mum brings out chairs from the dining room and a card table from the garage. Sam watches as I run an extension lead through the kitchen window and plug in a cassette player so he can listen to some of his all time favourite cassettes. Songs he’s probably forgotten, like Sparky’s Magic Piano and The Laughing Policeman. I also found my collection of Monty Python classics. Sam used to laugh his socks off whenever I played them in the car.
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When we’ve finished Mum insists that Sam and I have a rest. I don’t argue. She makes a trip to the shops for steak and sausages, soft drinks and corn chips, party poppers and sparklers. I hope she remembers the marshmallows.
The setting sun stains the clouds a brilliant cherry red. The sky is clear; a good night for star gazing. The evening is still warm but the forecast predicts a drop to eight degrees overnight, not bad for early-December. Mum and Sam sit around the table playing cards; Mum’s a surprisingly proficient poker player. It’s good watching them having fun. These last few weeks have been difficult for Mum. It’s all right for me; I have Adam and my friends. Mum doesn’t know many people in Canberra. All her friends from the old days have moved on. She lost it one day, said she couldn’t wait to get back to Sydney, then she realised what she’d said. It was awful. Hannah, bless her, volunteered to keep Sam company while I took Mum out to dinner and the movies. We saw a film about three little old ladies who take on a gang of young thugs. Mum thought it was a hoot.
Adam’s busily barbecuing steak and sausages while I slice bread rolls and make the only kind of salad Sam will eat: plain lettuce leaves, sliced tomatoes and beetroot. I carry out a stack of enamel plates and camping cutlery. I refuse to drink out of plastic cups so I dig out the sturdy water glasses from the back of the cupboard. They once contained jam and they’re almost indestructible. “Ready.” Adam calls out. Mum and Sam quickly finish their hand. Sam’s smiling so I guess he won. Mum covers the card table with a colourful plastic cloth and sets out the plates and cutlery. I put the salad and bread rolls on the table and Adam brings over the meat. I make a steak and salad roll for Sam, topping the lot with a generous dollop of mayonnaise. Just how he likes it. Sam grips the roll with both hands and takes a miniscule bite. He holds the roll for a few minutes before putting it down. The rest of us make pigs of ourselves. Adam eats two rolls and Sam manages a couple more nibbles. Lady, sitting patiently at Sam’s feet, is rewarded with the leftovers. Dessert is Sam’s favourite, toffee and hazelnut ice cream. He manages a few mouthfuls. After we’ve eaten Adam lights the primus and we toast marshmallows, burning most of them, dropping others on the grass for Lady to lap up. One of the marshmallows is still burning when it hits the grass and it sends sparks flying. Adam stamps on the smouldering embers until they go out. “That was exciting,” Sam says, “good job it didn’t set fire to the tent.”
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He chooses a cassette, Hits of the Sixties and Seventies, and we sing along to I’m a Believer and Sugar Baby Love. Sam groans with laughter and I nearly lose control of my bladder when Mum and Adam get up to dance to You Sexy Thing. All too soon it starts getting chilly. Mum and I tidy up while Adam carries Sam into the house. I help Sam to get ready for his night under canvas: T-shirt, shorts, fleece-lined hoodie, track pants, and two pairs of thick socks. Emily’s purple and yellow beanie complete his ensemble. Mum is similarly dressed, right down to one of Sam’s beanies. “You look like a pair of Arctic explorers,” I say. “Would you like hot water bottles to tuck into your sleeping bags?” “Yes, please,” Mum says. Sam doesn’t reply so I take that for a “yes”. Adam takes a photo of the intrepid pair, then one of them with me. I take one of him with them. Everyone is smiling, even me. I try not to think that this might be the last family photo. Adam carries Sam outside and I slide a hot water bottle into his sleeping bag. It’s still mild, the sky is clear with a few stars putting on an early show. A nail clipping of a moon hangs over the garage roof. The branches of a large gum in the far corner of the yard rustle and then are still. “Watch out for the possums,” I tell them, “don’t want them nibbling your toes.” “Mine are safe inside my sleeping bag,” Sam says, “it’s my nose I’m worried about.” Mum flashes me a grim smile as she crawls inside the tent. Adam appears with a spare doona he’d brought over. Kneeling down he spreads it over Mum and Sam as they huddle inside their sleeping bags, cuddling up together like newborn pups. “Goodnight,” Mum says, zipping up the inner tent. She leaves the outer layer open so they can see the stars. “Goodnight, guys.” I say, “I’ll leave the back door unlocked.” I blow Sam a goodnight kiss. He catches it and blows one back. As I walk towards the house I hear Mum flick on her torch. She’d promised to read a chapter or two of Sam’s favourite book. His eyesight is fading and he tires easily so reading is a problem. He can listen to talking books, though, and our local library is fantastic at getting him the ones he wants. He sits for hours with his earpiece in chuckling away to Terry Pratchett. His laughter is music for my soul. I slide the door closed behind me, remembering not to lock it. Adam, my darling man, has washed the dishes and is making me a mug of Milo. It’s the only thing that seems to settle
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the heartburn that grips me most nights. I move towards him and slide my arms around his waist. He turns and pulls me towards him, holding me close. I rest my head on his chest.
Mum wakes us up around six. Adam carries Sam inside and puts him to bed. Mum says they’d spent the night talking and looking at the stars. They’d to stay awake until the sun came up then decided they’d had enough fun and it was time to go to sleep.
They’re still asleep at eleven. I go into Sam’s room to say goodbye before I set off to the clinic for my check up. Each morning I pray to all the gods in the universe that Sam will be here when the baby’s born. That he’ll still be around to celebrate its sixteenth birthday, and twenty-first.
I’m having an ultrasound this afternoon and the radiographer has agreed to let Sam come too. He’s very excited. He sits on one side with Adam on the other as the radiographer smears clear jelly on my belly. The cold gel reminds me that my bladder is full to bursting. I try to think of something else, anything to hold back the flood. I soon forget about my need to urinate when the images take shape on the screen. I can hear the baby’s heartbeat, like the thunder of tiny hooves. I look at Sam; he’s totally rapt. “Do you want to know if it’s a boy or a girl?” The operator holds the monitor poised over my belly. I look at Adam. He shrugs. “It’s up to you.” Thanks, I don’t know whether I want to know. I turn to Sam and his face lights up with a grin. “Cool.” I smile at the operator: “Yes, please, we’d like to know.”
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Chapter 72 6 December Mr Bolitho, one of our neighbours, came round last night. He said he wanted to do something to help. Mum said she wastes no time doing the housework so she doesn’t need any help with that. It was a joke but I don’t think he got it.
He said he can’t cook and he’s got a bad back so he can’t weed the garden so he said he’d polish our shoes. Said he used to mend shoes and likes to see them being looked after. He brought his cleaning stuff with him. Mum went around the house tossing shoes into a laundry basket and Mr Bolitho spread newspaper on the kitchen table and started polishing. I could hear them talking and laughing. I couldn’t sit with them cos the smell of the polish made me feel sick.
7 December I feel yucky. Everyone’s being extra nice to me. I guess that’s not a good sign. I talked to Hannah this morning. She told me what’ll happen when I die. Says it doesn’t hurt. It’s like a machine. Everything shuts down and when all the lights have gone off I’ll go to sleep. And not wake up. Doesn’t sound too bad.
8 December Hi Mum. I’m writing this for you. I don’t know how many more times I’ll get to write (type?) my journal so I thought I’d better tell you that I don’t want you to blame yourself, there’s nothing you could have done. Hannah said even if this big eppymomma had been picked up sooner they might not have been able to remove it all.
At least I don’t have to worry about buying Christmas presents this year, never mind worrying about what I’ll do when I grow up.
What I’m trying to say, Mum, is that it’s OK. About dying, I mean. I’m a bit scared but not as much as I thought I’d be. I remember what you said when Grandpa died. I asked you if it hurts when you die and you said it doesn’t (you weren’t kidding were you?) and when I asked how you know you said that babies don’t seem to feel any pain when they’re being born and dying is the same. You said babies cry when they take their first breath cos their lungs have to
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get used to breathing air instead of water and their skin has to get used to being out in the open. To being dry. They’re not crying cos they’re in pain. You said we don’t remember what it’s like before we’re born so maybe it’s like that when we die, we go back to the same place. I hope you’re impressed that I remembered all this. I bet you thought I wasn’t listening.
9 December I know you’ll be alright when you have the baby. I’ve always wanted a … no, I’m not going to say what “it” is in case Gran reads this before he or she is born. I’m glad you let them tell us what it is so I can picture them (Ms Collins said it’s OK to write “them” rather than he/she) growing up, learning to walk, riding a bike, swimming. You’re a great mother and I know you’ll do a great job with the new baby. I hope it’s as smart as me and as good-looking, ha ha.
I asked Hannah to buy a present for the baby when it’s born. I’m not going to tell you what it is so it’ll be a surprise. I also put some things in a shoebox, models I’ve made, a couple of photos and some drawings, and a letter. Hannah’s got that too. It’s for the baby. So he — or she — will know what their older brother was really like.
I’m sad cos I don’t want to leave everybody. I know you and Gran will miss me and I guess some of my friends will miss me (yeah, right!!!). I’m sad cos I won’t get to see the new baby but I got to see it moving around inside you. That was amazing. I wonder if they make noises when they’re in there?
I hope you and Adam have fun with the baby. It’ll be like me being born all over again. You’ll be able to say Sam was like this when he was 6 months old, and when he was 3, and when he started school. I know this one won’t be dumb enough to get cancer. Hannah said some parents (that’s you) who lose a child (that’s me) worry about their younger children (that’s the new baby) in case something happens to them. Nothing will happen to our baby. It won’t, I know it won’t.
10 December In case you’re wondering, Mum, there are some things I’d like to do before I die. I’m not going to tell you what they are. You’ll probably guess some of them. If not you can ask Josh. He’s made a list of all the things he has to do before he dies and some of mine are on his list.
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I don’t mind that I won’t get to do them. I’ve done a lot of things other kids my age haven’t done. Like going to France and having a dog and being kissed by Emily (did you guess that one, Mum?). If I could have one last wish you know what it would be. And if I had a second wish, like Kenny in “South Park”, it’d be that Emily kisses me again. That’s not too much to ask, is it?
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Chapter 73 Jenny had warned me what to expect but when it starts I ignore it, hoping it will go away, trying to pretend it’s not happening. It begins slowly with Sam sleeping more than usual. This is the first sign, Jenny said, possibly because of changes in his metabolism or iron deficiency or the increased amount of morphine. Some days he’s barely conscious. When he’s awake he’s restless, he gets angry when we try to help him. Other days he’s as limp and unresponsive as a newborn. His skin’s like a baby’s; pale, translucent, with a milky blueness. Mum’s here all the time now and Adam’s here more often than he’s at home. There’s not much we can do apart from keeping Sam clean and comfortable. Usually I just sit with him, sometimes I massage his hands and feet with lavender oil. That’s the only oil he’ll let me use. He says the others make him vomit or smell too girly or both. This morning I’m spoon-feeding him slivers of crushed ice, wiping his chin when the melting ice dribbled down his chin. He licks his dry lips and smiles at me. “Not bad,” he says, licking his lips again, “only one thing missing.” “What’s that?” “A vodka martini — shaken not stirred — oh, and an olive.”
I don’t know what I’d do without Jenny or the nurses who come to check on Sam and give him his meds.
Jenny came round one afternoon when Sam was not only awake, he was chattering like his old self. She sat on his bed, doing what she had to do. Sam and I pretended not to notice the red nose she wore or the hat topped with a giant plastic propeller. We had to say something when she reached inside her jacket and the plastic flower pinned to her pocket squirted us with water. Sam laughed as droplets of water flew off his face. I fared slightly better, scoring a few sprinkles on my shirt. It made me think of the early days of breastfeeding when Sam and I were both learning the ropes. If I waited too long before feeding him, milk would ooze out of my painful breasts, dripping down my top. Sometimes the flow of milk would be too fierce and would shoot all over the place, hitting him in the eye. He’d squint at me, a confused expression on his tiny puckered face, as I wiped away the milky tears.
Jenny said that looking after very sick children is the hardest part of her job. It doesn’t seem fair, she said, going through all that pain when they’re so young. Although they’re sick, she said, they’re still kids. They still want to play, to have fun.
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It’s not only kids who want to have fun, Jenny said. Some of her older patients refuse to take things seriously. She told me about an elderly man who hadn’t long to live. He’d asked how long and laughed when she said about six months. He said at least he wouldn’t have to worry about filling in his tax return. I smiled and Jenny smiled back. “Sometimes,” she said, “laughter is the only thing I can give.”
I can’t believe I didn’t want to join the support group. They’ve been wonderful. Every day one or more of them calls to see how I am — and Sam, of course — and someone comes round every evening with dinner. Sam said he wishes he’d got sick years ago, he’s never eaten so well. The other day we had one of his favourite meals, lasagne, with apple pie and ice cream for dessert. Not that he eats much but he likes the attention.
I’ve spent hours at Sam’s bedside, reading to him, singing his favourite songs, holding his hand. He’s now on morphine and midazolam to control the pain and stop him getting the shakes. That’s probably why he sleeps so much. I told him I feel like his drug dealer, giving him all these drugs. He laughed and said it’s a good job he doesn’t have to pay street prices.
One morning, a glorious day in early December with the sky a breathtaking blue usually seen only in a child’s painting and the forecast top a balmy 26 degrees, I notice a change. I ring Gloria, one of our nurses, and she comes round straight away. She listens to Sam’s breathing then she turns him over on his side, his head lower than his chest. The dreadful gurgling stops. Two days later Sam’s breathing is worse; he breathes loudly then stops for what seems like eternity then starts breathing again. It’s painful to hear but Jenny said Sam won’t know what’s happening to him. And what is happening to him? He’s dying, that’s what, dying before my eyes. It’s all part of the dying process. A natural death. I remember how I’d wanted to have a natural birth and how happy I was Sam had agreed with that plan. He’d made his entrance into the world with the minimum of fuss. Now I’m helping him make his way out of it. And he still isn’t making a fuss. I’m glad I can look after him at home; it’s the last thing I’ll ever do for him. Marion, another nurse, comes early the next morning. I know Sam is near the end. Mum stays with Sam, gently wiping his face with a warm washer, while Adam and I follow Marion into the kitchen. Marion answers the question I can’t ask. “It won’t be long. Would you like me to stay?”
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I shake my head. “I’ll come back later.” I nod, too numb to speak. Adam puts his arms around me but I push him away. I ring Sam’s school. The secretary gets Ms Connor out of class. She comes round at lunchtime with Josh, Brett and Emily. Although the boys put on brave faces Emily can’t stop crying. They bring flowers and more South Park merchandise. Josh puts a cuddly Stan doll on Sam’s bed. Emily gamely wipes her eyes. I let her take my place. My heart aches when she leans over and kisses Sam on the lips. She straightens up and Sam opens his eyes, looking at me and then at her. One eyelid flutters. Emily laughs. “That’s typical of you, Sam, you’re supposed to be dying and you’re still flirting with me.” Sam smiles, his eyes closing. He doesn’t open them again.
They don’t stay long. I’d worried whether letting them come is the right thing to do, if it would be too traumatic for them. Then I realised that whatever they imagined could be worse than the reality, and besides, kids are tougher than we think. At least Sam is. Mum and I sit with Sam for the rest of the day. I dash to the toilet and back, anxious not to be away a minute, a second, longer than necessary. I lay my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat; such a soothing sound. Adam brings us drinks and sandwiches. He sits beside me and massages my neck. I lean against him and feel him relax, my cheek against his, his warm tears mingling with mine. I feel so helpless. Then I remember Jenny saying that hearing is the last sense to go. I grab a South Park DVD and slot it in. I lean over the bed. “Sam? Listen, it’s your song.” The opening credits start then the familiar sound track. I watch Sam’s face; I think I see his lips curl into a smile. When the episode has finished Mum and I keep talking, we talk about all sorts of things. How excited she was when I told her I was pregnant with him. How funny he looked when he was born. How he refused to eat out of the china dish she bought him for his second birthday because it had a picture of a cat on the inside. How he hated getting sand on his feet and loved eating play dough. Adam joins in, reminding us of our trip to Euro Disney, how he’d nearly vomited on Space Mountain. Around four thirty I look at Sam’s colourless face. I touch him, he feels warm but that doesn’t mean anything. I feel for a pulse in his wrist; it’s weak and irregular but still there.
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His hands are cold, skin tissue-paper thin, bones as frail as a bird’s. I tuck them under his doona.
Marion was right; we don’t have to wait long. Sam’s breathing grows louder and more laboured. There are awful gaps between each fraught struggle for air. The hairs on my neck prickle as I beg him to breathe, willing him take one more breath, just one more, knowing that one time he won’t do it.
When the end comes I don’t know what to do. Strange because I’ve known for weeks what was going to happen. Why am I surprised? I wait, wait for him to take another breath. I touch his cheek and say his name, hoping he’s just fallen asleep. Marion arrives and checks his pulse, her eyes never leaving mine. Mum sits staring at Sam’s face, her eyes wide, hand clamped over her mouth. She glances at me before sliding in a graceful faint to the floor. Marion and Adam help Mum to her feet and into the chair next to mine. I put an arm around her shoulder and she pats my hand. Marion is wonderful. “Take as long as you need,” she says. “There’s no rush. I’ll be in the family room if you need me.” Adam follows her out. I am grateful they’ve gone.
I don’t know how long Mum and I sit there. I feel numb, unable to move or think or speak. After a while I have the urge to hold him. I climb onto the bed and put my arms around him. Mum sobs quietly on the other side of the bed, her head on the mattress, one hand holding Sam’s. I stroke his hair and kiss him, telling him how much I love him, how proud I am. I sing lullabies, rocking him gently, patting his back as if he’s a baby. Mum joins in when I sing one of his favourite songs, Morningtown Ride. I have tears in my voice when I sing: “Maybe it is raining where our train will ride. All the little travellers are warm and snug inside.” I think of those other children, other little travellers, going on the same journey. I hope they are all warm and snug.
I trace a finger over Sam’s face, around his eyes, his lashes soft against my skin, his eyebrows stubbly. I draw a finger along his nose, slipping over the neat tip, running down the cleft to his upper lip, around his mouth to the soft, soft secret space between his lower lip and his chin, skin as smooth as the day he was born. I bury my face in the gap between his neck and shoulder, breathing in his scent, filling my lungs.
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Then it’s time to get him ready. Sam had soiled himself in his last moments and I can’t let anyone else wash him. Marion helps us to undress him and we lay him on a thick white towel. She leaves us alone and Mum and I take turns at washing him with warm water and a new bar of lavender soap. I wash the tufts of his hair with baby shampoo, trickling the water gently over his head, taking care not to let it run into his eyes. When we’ve finished washing him we dry him with the biggest, fluffiest towel I can find then we dress him in his favourite jeans and T-shirt, the sneakers he wore in France, and Emily’s beanie. He looks calm; the deep shadows gone from under his eyes. His mouth is curved into a gentle smile. Wherever he is it can’t be that bad.
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Chapter 74 Adam holds Maggie tight against his chest while the funeral director takes Sam’s body away. He helps her to get undressed and puts her to bed. She’s crumbling in front of him, her pain almost more than he can bear. When she’s asleep he tells Julia he’s going to break the news to his parents. “I won’t be long,” he says, “but don’t wait up, I’ll sleep on the couch. I don’t want to disturb Maggie.” The truth is, he knows Maggie needs to be alone. He shivers, hoping she won’t reject him completely. He couldn’t bear to lose her. Julia pats his arm, smiling a sad, knowing smile.
It’s gone ten by the time Adam reaches his parent’s house. His father opens the door and knows instantly what’s happened. He puts his arms around his son and leads him inside. Adam’s mother is in bed. She calls out from the bedroom, anxious to know what’s going on. “Go and see your mum. I’ll get us a stiff drink.” Neville heads towards the kitchen leaving Adam staring at his parents’ bedroom door. Adam wills his feet to move, straightens his back, chest out, stomach in, and marches down the hall. Joy is propped up against a nest of pillows. The soft pink glow of the bedside lamp makes her look younger. Her book lies open on the bed. She looks at Adam’s face and is gripped with fear. “What’s wrong?” Adam sits on the bed, one hand almost touching hers. “It’s Sam, Mum. He’s gone, he died a few hours ago.” Joy’s face crumples and tears slide down her cheeks. She reaches for Adam’s hand and squeezes it between both of hers. “Poor boy,” she says in a whisper, “and poor you. You look worn out.” She pauses, then asks, “How’s Maggie?” Adam shakes his head. “Not good.” He catches his mother’s anxious look and hurries on, “The baby’s all right. The doc gave her a quick check up. Everything’s fine.” “She’s lucky to have you to look after her.” Adam tries to speak but his voice lets him down. He walks out of the room, ignoring his father who’s holding two tumblers of whisky. He staggers outside. The air is cold and still, as
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if waiting for something. He sucks in the clear fresh air, filling his lungs, feeling it flowing through him, giving him new life.
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Chapter 75 I can’t bear those kind friends who want to comfort me. Their eyes solemn, mouthing words of clichéd sympathy. They’re desperate to be kind. I don’t want their kindness, or their sympathy; I want to be left alone. No, wait, that’s not what I want. Don’t leave me, stay just out of sight, so I know you’re there. I’ll call you when I’m ready. I do call but my calls seem to embarrass them. I loathe it when they say they’re about to call me but they had to pick up their child from school, or take them to their piano lesson, or the orthodontist. I want to scream. I’ve nowhere to take my child — except to the cemetery. The worst thing is the kindness of strangers; their sympathy makes me weep. Adam told me his father cried when he heard about Sam. Adam’s been wonderful, my rock. He’s never left my side unless I push him away. I’ve done that many times. Told him I needed to be alone. When the pain gets too much I can’t share it with anyone, not even Adam or my mother. I’m like a horse I saw on a school camp. The poor thing was in so much pain it kept walking around and around, trying to get away from its pain. The vet said it had a twisted bowel and had to be put down. I cried for weeks. The pain of childbirth, so it’s said, is the most exquisite pain and usually the worst in a woman’s life. It’s also the pain most quickly forgotten, replaced by the joy of holding the new life you’ve created. The pain of losing that child is unbearable. I can understand why some parents can’t live with the pain, why most couples split up; they can’t bear that constant reminder, their pain reflected in their partner’s eyes.
“It’s no good asking me what Sam wanted. I tried asking him; he didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to talk about it. Anyway, what could I say? “Oh, by the way, Sam, have you thought about your funeral? What music would you like? Would you like us to release balloons or a swarm of bloody butterflies? And while you’re at it, perhaps you’d like to write your own eulogy.” I stop, lips trembling, heart pounding like a racehorse at the Melbourne Cup. My mother stares at me, mouth open, her chin almost touching her knees. These past few days have aged her. I keep forgetting that she’s getting older. Poor Mum. It must be hard seeing your grandchild go first. I rub my face and try to re-focus. “Sorry, sorry, I don’t mean to have a go at you … it’s just …” Mum and Adam nod in unison; they know it’s just …
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“Well,” Mum says, lifting her head and looking me straight in the eye, mouth and chin in their proper positions. “Do you remember what Sam said when your dad died? When we were driving back from the funeral?” I flip through the tattered scrapbook of my memory, back to the night Dad died. When after a mind-numbingly boring day at work I’d gone home early and hired a DVD. Sam and I were sitting side by side on our new leather recliners, replete after dial-a-pizza and garlic bread. I had a long cool drink in one hand, TV remote in the other, and was fast-forwarding to the start of the movie when the phone rang. I ignored it, hoping it would go away. Then I heard the click of the answering machine and Mum’s voice.
Weeks later I was hanging out washing when a cockatoo shrieked overhead, swooping down to land on the neighbour’s overloaded apricot tree. The large bird grabbed a fragile branch with its huge talons, spread its enormous wings, and flipped upside down like a bat. It clamped its huge beak on a luscious fruit and elegantly nibbled at it. It was a strange and beautiful sight, one I mentally recorded so I could tell dad later; he loved those blasted birds. Then it hit me; I wouldn’t be able to tell him anything again. My heart melted and rose in my throat, filling my mouth, my eyes. Tears streamed down my face, my whole body trembling.
Did I remember what Sam said? Of course I did. Sam was eleven. He’d adored his grandpa and it hit him hard when he died. No time to say goodbye, or to tell him how much he loved him. It was Sam’s second funeral although he’d been too young to remember the first one — Tim’s funeral. Now he’s going to another funeral — this time, his own.
Sam had sobbed his heart out during Dad’s ceremony, especially when the coffin was being lowered, and I struggled to console him. Later, Mum said Sam’s tears helped her stay dry- eyed. On the way home I put the radio on to distract Sam. In one of those strange karmic moments there was a program about cremations. I tried to change channels but Sam wanted to listen to it. When the program finished the station played Queen’s Another one bites the dust. That’s more like it, I said, and Sam burst out laughing. “What’s so funny?” I asked. Sam was a giggling machine and it was some time before he was able to speak. “It was that man at Grandpa’s funeral…” he broke off into another round of giggles, “when he said that bit about ashes to ashes and dust to dust … then the coffin went down …
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to be burnt. And Gran said they’d give us Grandpa’s ashes and we could scatter them at Jindabyne. That’s where she and Grandpa went on their honeymoon.” He paused, his chest heaving. “Then the man on the radio said how the average person’s ashes weigh about a kilo … and they look like a cross between wood ash and the stuff you find in your vacuum cleaner. Then …” he broke off, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Then that song came on, Another one bites the dust … and I thought it would’ve been a cool song to play at Grandpa’s funeral.” His body was shaking. Gran put her arms around him while he sobbed. I’m not ashamed to admit I’m a big Queen fan. I was, after all, a child of the eighties. Whenever he heard that song Sam would stop and listen; said it reminded him of Grandpa. One day he and his friends were playing in the yard, a loud game with lots of shouting and pretend shooting. Then the radio played Dust and Sam started singing and dancing to the music. Within seconds his friends had joined in and they were racing around the yard in a complicated dance routine that looked as if they’d spent hours rehearsing it. When the song ended they went back to shooting each other, falling down then leaping up and racing around again. Watching them made me feel tired.
I look at Mum, “I’ve still got the CD.”
The next day I get up early, just after dawn, and go outside. A cockatoo lands on my neighbour’s apricot tree. It squawks shrilly and flips itself upside down, its giant wings unfurling like an umbrella, the better to reach the fruit. I want to tell Sam. I walk inside, touching things: photos, drawing, models he’d made, the dried flowers in the vase he’d bought for my birthday last year. I go into his room and sit on his bed. The sheets are tucked in tight, the doona smooth, like it’s never been slept in. My foot hits something and I bend down to see what it is. It’s one of Sam’s old sneakers. I pick it up and my cheeks grow hot as I remember how I used to shout at him to leave his sneakers outside, saying the smell could kill a brown dog. Now I’ll never yell at him again: for leaving his bag in the hall for me to trip over, for “forgetting” to wash up or take out the garbage, for waiting until we’re dashing out of the house before remembering he needs money for an excursion but I don’t have any change and he’s in tears, saying “I have to have it, today’s the last day”. The last day. There’s an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach and my eyes ache with weeping. Was I a bad mother? Is this my punishment for nagging him too much, not looking after him
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properly, not spending more time with him? Not loving him enough? Surely other mothers are as bad, or worse, and they’ve still got their children. And what about parents who neglect or abuse their kids? Nothing happens to those kids, does it? It’s so fucking unfair.
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Chapter 76 It’s the day of the funeral. I’m wearing a black maternity skirt and a white shirt. Mum’s wearing a dark grey suit, almost the same shade as Adam’s. The funeral director has been wonderful. I’d asked for a female celebrant. Only another woman, another mother, could know what it’s like to lose a child. Until I met her, I’d no idea what a female funeral celebrant would look like. If I had, she would’ve looked like Rachel. She looks like she’s been to the edge — and survived. The chapel is crowded. I’ve hired it for an hour. Thirty minutes didn’t seem long enough to say goodbye, not long enough for a lifetime’s memories, even for a life as short as Sam’s. Heads turn as I walk down the central aisle to the front row, leaning on Adam’s arm, like a bride, to the heart-stirring sound of “Adagio in G Minor” by Tomaso Albinoni. Some of Sam’s friends have come dressed as characters from South Park. Someone has put a Stan doll on top of the coffin. Mum’s sitting in the front row, next to Rhonda and Gerard. I nod to Hannah as I walk past, pleased she could make it. I recognise other staff from the hospital. Marion is here and Ron and some other neighbours. Neville and Joy sit behind Mum. Neville smiles when he sees me and I give him a small wave. Joy leans forward and says something to Mum. Mum turns round and pats Joy’s hand. I spot Jade and her new boyfriend, as well as Ashley and a few other workmates. Two attractive women, they look like mother and daughter, sit in the row behind Adam’s parents. Adam told me who they are: Rosie and Barbara, old family friends. It’s good of them to come; people lead such busy lives. When everyone is seated the celebrant takes her place on the podium. Rachel waits until the music stops before starting the ceremony we’ve written between us. I sit with my feet crossed at the ankles, hands clasped, like a schoolgirl on her best behaviour. Ms Connor speaks first. She’d set up a screen behind her and one of Sam’s classmates sits at one side, a laptop on a table in front of him, mouse in hand. Pictures of Sam flash up on the screen. Ms Connor provides a brief commentary: Sam at the Year 7 camp, the school disco, photos of him in hospital, one of a group of girls showering him with beanies, Sam and Hannah’s visit to school, a project he completed in his final weeks. The last photo needs no explanation; it shows Sam and Emily, holding hands, smiling at each other. Brett and Josh are next. They take turns to read, passing a sheet of paper between them. Their voices are muffled but it’s so quiet I can hear every word. They say how Sam was a good friend, how he stood up for them when they were in trouble. That he always did the right
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thing, like the time he stole some lollies from the school canteen and gave them away because he felt too guilty to eat them. The following day he raided his moneybox and repaid the money. I didn’t know about that. I wonder what else I don’t know? Then it’s Emily’s turn. She stands up and her blonde hair sways as she moves, shining like a beacon in the dim light. She keeps her eyes on the ground as she walks to the lectern, clutching a piece of paper to her chest. She looks around the packed chapel and starts to speak, her voice barely audible: “I’d like to read a poem I wrote for Sam” Raising her head, and her voice, she continues: “He was a good friend … and I loved him.” She pauses while she dabs her eyes and blows her nose. She straightens the piece of paper and starts to read:
A friend like Sam by Emily Dawson
I’m glad I had a friend like Sam He never let me down He was by my side when things were bad I was never on my own
When I needed someone who was big and strong Sam’s the one I’d call He made me laugh, he made me smile He was the bestest friend of all. Now he’s gone …
Emily breaks off, tears streaming down her face. As if they’d rehearsed it, two of her friends walk to front and stand on either side of her. One of the girls takes the paper from Emily’s trembling fingers. Together they complete the reading:
Now he’s gone I’m not alone I see him everywhere. He’s the morning sun and the moon at night And the brightest star of all.
The girls sit down to a chorus of applause and genteel sniffing. Then it’s my turn. Rachel had asked me to think about music and readings and what I want to say. She suggested I look through photo albums and other memorabilia. When she came back a few days later I had a pile of stuff on the kitchen table. Rachel listened while I talked about the special and the not so special events in Sam’s life. The time he fell headfirst down the toilet because he wanted to see where the water went when we flushed it, and the time I rushed him to the doctors
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because he had a strange rash on his chest. It turned out he’d painted the spots with food colouring and didn’t want to tell me in case he got into trouble. Between us we crafted a story of Sam’s life. I manage to read it without breaking down. Now it’s the tricky part. I’ve written a poem, not a great poem, perhaps, but it’s what I want to say, what I need to say. I clear my throat. My legs are shaking and I grip the lectern for support. I feel light headed. I have to do this. I look at the poem, take a deep breath, lift my head and recite it from memory:
Sam, my love for you is constant, Unchanged by our separation. But my love, as necessary as the air I breathe, Was not enough to keep you here. Inner demons stole the light from your eyes, Destroyed the rosy future that was your birthright. Your spirit, strong but tethered to that frail body, Broke away and set you free.
The funeral director has been instructed to play Another one bites the dust while the coffin is being lowered. The coffin is white and is decorated with signatures and drawings done by some of Sam’s friends and teachers. Inside the coffin is a selection of South Park toys and Sam’s iPod with a selection of his favourite songs. The music lasts for over three minutes but lowering the coffin doesn’t take that long. Rachel has calculated the point in the song where she has to give a nod to the operator so he’ll know when to flick the switch. Maggie blinks back her tears as she listens to the words:
How do you think I’m going to get along, Without you, when you’re gone? You took me for everything that I had, And kicked me out on my own.2
Maggie feels she’s been kicked all right, her whole world turned upside down. She longs to climb into the coffin with Sam, wrap her arms around him, lay her warm cheek against his cold one; breathe life back into him. She’d hold him until the flames swallow them both, until there’s nothing left but dust.
Rachel signals the operator in the control room to press the switch to lower the coffin. There’s a gentle whirring sound as the coffin slowly disappears.
2 Another one bites the dust by Queen (released 22 August 1980)
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As if another switch has been pressed, one, then two, then all of Sam’s friends advance to the front of the chapel and begin to dance. Awkwardly at first, then with growing confidence, they bop around to the music, the more daring ones dancing up and down the aisle. Someone starts to clap and everyone joins in. When the music stops everyone claps and cheers as the dancers make their way to their seats. Rachel waits until everyone is seated before she reads the final words: “We have come here today to say goodbye to Sam. He touched so many people in his short life and brought so much love and laughter. Although you are sad because he has gone you should be happy because he lived. He has left behind so many happy memories,” she nods towards Maggie. “He will not be forgotten.” “I have one final reading, a quote from Stan, Sam’s favourite South Park character”. The celebrant clears her throat and pitches her voice higher as she tries to mimic Stan’s voice:
But that isn’t the point, Butters, the point is that this is NOW! It’s on, and there are people who need you to step up. Look, nobody likes having to rise to a challenge, but competing against other people and getting in their faces … and saying “Ha ha, I’m better than you” is part of life. And if you can’t face that, then you might as well sit here playing with Lego until you’re an old man. 3
There’s a ripple of laughter. Rachel pauses for a few moments before continuing. “Sam certainly stepped up to meet the challenges that came his way. And I’ve heard he could sometimes get in your face.” Another round of laughter. “You should all be proud that Sam was part of your life, and that you were part of his. It is now time to leave him, to send him on his way, with your thoughts and memories of the happy times you shared. Let us leave him in peace … Goodbye, Sam.” Rachel pauses. Some of the mourners are shaking with silent sobs; others wipe their streaming eyes. Parents hold their children’s hands. The celebrant closes her folder and steps down from the podium. This is the signal for the operator to play What a Wonderful World. It is also a signal for everyone to stand. Rachel walks towards Maggie and puts her arms around her, a hug of sympathy, at the same time turning her towards the door. She takes Maggie’s hand and holds out the other one for Julia. Walking between them she leads the way to the chapel door. Another funeral is due to start in ten minutes. Rachel knows from experience that some funeral guests like to arrive
3 South Park SBS 15 October 2007
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early and she doesn’t want her mourners to bump into the next group. She leads them along a gravel path that skirts the side of the building, pausing when they’re out of sight of the main entrance. The funeral cars have been moved to the side car park so it’s easier to slip away. The mourners continue to file out. There’s a moment of awkward silence when Josh throws back his head and laughs, his whole body shaking; then the laughter turns to tears. His mother holds him while he sobs. Rachel releases her grip on Maggie and steps aside. Maggie is immediately surrounded, Adam’s arm firmly around her waist. Rachel watches as Maggie’s face crumples. The pain, she knows, will fade but she’ll never forget. You never forget. It’s strange, she thinks, that when a man’s wife dies he becomes a widower, a woman becomes a widow, and a child without parents is an orphan. But there’s no word to describe a parent who loses a child. Perhaps that’s because parents aren’t meant to outlive their children, or because nothing, no single word, can describe this state of being. She sighs. It’s always a relief when she finishes a ceremony and a child’s funeral is particularly difficult. Still, her work here is done. She goes over to the funeral director to say goodbye and to collect her fee, a modest cheque discretely provided in a plain white envelope. Then she walks to her car, feet crunching on the freshly raked gravel. The path is bordered with rose bushes, their soft scent filling the still air. It’s a beautiful day, the sky paintbox blue with a few rabbit-tail clouds; the kind of day that makes you glad to be alive.
ENDS
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