Hindsight Read online

  “Tell me Will, what sort of doctor do you want to be?”

  “I’m torn between surgery and psychiatry. Both attract me, but for different reasons.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Well, surgeons get to save lives, fix broken bodies, and that’s incredible.” He comes to life, animation taking over. “Considering that before the war mortality rates for minor injuries were high, imagine what the future holds? Imagine being able to save a person’s life.”

  Imagine indeed, laser surgery, nano-technology, microsurgery, surgery on unborn babies… The future holds incredible advancements, none of which I can share with him.

  “And the other?”

  “The human mind is like an uncharted world, with us clomping our way through, oblivious to new pathways, experiences, causes. What causes lunacy, melancholia, mania, insanity? How can it be cured, can it be cured or has the brain changed permanently? There’s so much we don’t know,” he says.

  If he only knew that depression is commonplace in my own time, that women no longer have shock treatments for post-partum depression, that new drugs allow mental illness sufferers to live functioning lives in society, not locked away in asylums. He’s right. His foresight is impressive, for a boy not yet fifteen.

  “So, if I were to wave a magic wand, what would you wish for? What is your best chance of getting into uni?”

  “Attending a private school as of next year,” he looks down at his feet, “but I know we can’t afford that. And I don’t mind that Mum, it’s just the way things are.”

  “What will you do if you don’t get into uni?”

  He exhales deeply and looks into the distance, “I guess I’d join the army. Dad wants me to do an apprenticeship with either him or Uncle Rob, but I don’t know. Toolmaking and building don’t appeal to me. At least in the army I could be a medic, a bit like a doctor.”

  The army? The Vietnam War is only a few years away and there’s no way my son is going to be involved in that, particularly against his will once the drafting starts. His soul would be destroyed by the ugliness of it. My son is going to uni, he’s going to a private school next year. From now I am on a mission. This beautiful creature will not miss out on his dream.

  We cuddle up on the couch after the kids are in bed and Chris pulls out the photo albums. The last time we cuddled like this was so long ago that it is no longer accessible in my memory. I struggle to remain conscious and retain some level of concentration, because even though our bed is only a double, tiny compared to my regular king-size, it’s whispering to me and curling up under the blankets, (no doona here) is too enticing at the moment.

  “This is your side of the family, it was taken at Cal’s baptism.” He points a photo packed with about twenty people. The photo is black and white and very grainy, but I look so…young and happy, a movie-star smile on my face. Lily is holding Cal in a full white baptism gown.

  Despite only meeting Lily today, there is something special about her, a bit like a girl crush. So I am happy to learn that she is Cal’s godmother.

  “Where’s Dash? Why isn’t she in the photo?”

  “Dash and Joe moved to Queensland six years ago to take over his family’s cane farm. His Dad got sick and it was a great opportunity for them to live the country life.”

  “Dash isn’t here? But we’ve never been apart. Do we see each other much? She comes down each Christmas, right?” My voice is full of hope.

  Chris sighs. “No love. I’m sorry. It’s a long drive and air travel isn’t affordable. You haven’t seen each other since she left.”

  Hope is a pricked balloon, as is my face, flaccid and lifeless. A Dash-less life is unimaginable. Even though she drives me nuts at times, she’s my sister. Our blood is thicker than cottage cheese.

  “But you write often and Gran always comes to get you if she’s ringing Dash for birthdays and Christmas.” He rubs my shoulder and then hugs me close. “I’m really sorry Jules. This must be very difficult for you to live through again. It took you a long time to adjust to Dash’s move north. “

  “It did? How long?”

  “Nearly a year. After everything the two of you had been through together, it was no surprise. But Lily moved in and you became close with her; she filled the gap that was missing in your life. And you’ve been inseparable ever since.”

  “What about my Dad?”

  If there is an extra son then hopefully my Dad is still here too.

  “Jules…” Chris looks at me and holds my hand, “I’m so sorry, but your Dad passed away when you were a little girl.”

  “Oh, I see.” Tears prickle my eyes. “So he’s gone too.”

  “I’m sorry, love. Here’s a photo.” Chris lifts the pages and there he is, the same as in my memory, except in black and white.

  “I remember that photo, we were at a park, having a picnic. Dash took it.” It’s so odd that the photo in my hand is exactly the same as the one at home. How can that be? “It was taken a week before he…” Suddenly, the photo is out of focus, the blurriness making it impossible to see anything. Drops of water splash onto my hand and my cheeks feel wet. Chris produces a hanky and gently wipes away the tears that are falling out of my eyes.

  “I’m so sorry, love. I never knew your Dad. It was the beginning of a difficult time in your life.” He holds me close. “How about we leave this until another time?”

  “No. I need to hear it. Please, keep going Chris.” The tears stop and my nose starts to leak instead.

  He inhales deeply and then continues. “Your mother didn’t cope well with his passing. Gran practically raised you and Dash until your Mum…”

  “Which one is Gran?” I interrupt him. I know what happened to my Mum. Her tale of woe doesn’t interest me.

  He points to a tall, older woman standing behind me on the porch of a house, with her arms wrapped around my shoulders. She resembles a weather-beaten shed left to stand in the sun for sixty years, but one that isn’t about to fall over any time soon because it was made properly. Her brown, wavy hair is parted in the middle and pulled back off her face.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Gran,” he laughs.

  “No, I mean, her Christian name. What do you call her?”

  “I’ve only ever called her either Mrs Hoey or Gran. If I called her Leticia, she’d string me up.”

  “She looks scary, is she?”

  “Only for those foolish enough to cross her.”

  “Have you ever crossed her?”

  “No, I’m not silly,” he smiles. “Gran’s hard to describe. She’s tough, no doubt about that. But she’s also a very generous and kind woman. She’s lived though some very hard times: both wars and the Depression. You’ll see for yourself tomorrow. This is Uncle Din, who is your Mum’s older brother. He and his wife, Aunty Maeve, live behind Gran.”

  “What are they like?” I ask.

  “Funny, both of them. He keeps taking his car apart and puts it back together, but always has bits left over.” Chris shakes his head and laughs. “Aunty Maeve is Irish, she’s a lovely woman. Great cook.”

  Chris runs through other family members in the albums, but at the moment they are just faces in black and white and mean nothing to me. None of them live in the street; mostly in the neighbouring suburbs of Carlton and Fitzroy.

  “Well, sweetie, it’s late and tomorrow’s a workday, so let’s get some sleep.”

  “But wait, you never told me what happened after Dad died.”

  Chris hesitates, “Ahh, I think Gran is the best person to answer those questions. She knows everything and will give you the full account. It was before my time with you, so it’s best you ask her.”

  “What about your side of the family?”

  “We’ll cover that tomorrow night. We both have an early start in the morning, so let’s get to bed,” he yawns, covering his mouth.

  “The kids don’t start until nine; why do I have to get up early?”

  He smiles and kis
ses me on the forehead, “come on love. Bed time.”

  I make a last dash out to the loo, for fear of having to go later. Grabbing the torch and making my way up the concrete path to the back of the yard, it strikes me how quiet the neighbourhood is. There’s not even any traffic noise, not a peep. It’s a bit eerie. But what the area lacks in noise it makes up for in starlight. There are millions of them up there, twinkling, shooting, living in galactic chaos. A bit like me.

  Breathing in the cool night air, it occurs to me that this is my second night away from my own life. What’s happening there? Has Anya moved in? Has Big Al cancelled my contract and awarded it to Sonya Schafer? Not that there’s anything that can be done about it from here, and there’s no point worrying about things that are way out of my control. Tomorrow will be my day of exploration, seeing as I am committed to remain here until Will’s scholarship is secured.

  Chris snores softly next to me and my mind wanders back to the first time I fell in love with him. My limited previous relationships were nothing special, for no special reason.

  During our long nights sipping wine and eating cheese, I had told Chris of my intention to visit Dad’s grave and of my discomfort in returning to a gravesite that had been left untended for two years. Its neglect exacerbated my feelings of guilt. After all, he was only there because of me, and I wasn’t even decent enough to maintain his resting place, after all the love and warmth he brought into my life. It was an eternal loop of guilt.

  My father’s birthday was March 1st and I’d decided, spontaneously, to visit his graveside and lay some flowers, even though the thought of going there caused insomnia. The last time Dash and I had visited, two years prior, both of us were upset for a week afterwards so together; we made a pact not to return until we were better able to deal with our emotions.

  On Dad’s birthday, I wandered around amongst rows and rows of plaques and headstones for ten minutes before it occurred to me that I had entered through the wrong gate. I eventually came close to Dad’s plot only to discover a young man already there, down on his hands and knees. I hid behind an ornate tombstone, blending in with the large winged angels, vision blurred by tears, watching this person clean the headstone, pull weeds out and place them in a plastic bag and brush away the cobwebs over Dad’s inscription. He then stood up, put his hand on the stone, said something, collected his belongings and left. Remaining out of sight until he drove away, my cheeks slippery with tears, I walked over to Dad’s grave. It was tidy, clean; didn’t look neglected at all. I fell to my knees and wept quietly, running my fingers over the inscription. William Wilde, loving father and husband. My heart beat a little harder for Chris.

  I waited over the next week for him to mention it and thereby receive my sexual gratitude. But he didn’t. Not a hint, suggestion or even query as to the grave’s condition. To this day he still doesn’t know that I saw him, and he has never spoken of it. Whatever he said to Dad has remained a secret, as has my knowledge of what he did for me. That was the moment I fell in love with Chris Taylor.

  Chapter 14

  My lips are about to caress a double shot skim latte. A manicured hand sensuously lifts the latte glass off the saucer, teasing the napkin tied around the middle. My senses are alive with the aroma of freshly-ground coffee beans, tastebuds begging for a taste. The froth kisses my open mouth, my eyes close in anticipation of the forthcoming pleasure, lips glistening and ready to receive the steaming hot, creamy coffee—

  RRRRRRRRIIIIIIINNNNNNGGGGGG!

  My head explodes with the angry sound of an old-fashioned alarm clock going berserk two feet from my head. My body is kickstarted into heart attack mode as arms and legs flail wildly in different directions, a la beetle on its back. I fall out of bed and crash onto the floor. The alarm clock is still ringing. Grabbing for it with both hands, but not awake enough to coordinate them, I manage to knock it onto the floor where it continues its stroke-generating trill.

  “Where’s the bloody button? Chris, how do you turn this thing off?” The ring is so aggravating that it may send me screaming to the local asylum voluntarily. Unable to find the button to turn it off, I smash it onto the ground with the force of the Incredible Hulk.

  “Shut up! Shut up!” I growl. Smash! Smash! “Shut up you little fucker!” Oops, no swearing. Smash! Crash! But the thing is still going. It’s the prototype of the Terminator. Using my pillow I attempt to smother it to death. But you know what? It’s still going. It’s still freaking going… I sit on the pillow, hoping that if the asphyxia doesn’t’ t work, my weight will kill the beast, but it just vibrates through the pillow. If possible I would run over it with my car, but that’s right, I don’t have a car!

  Chris leans over, extracts the clock from under the pillow and presses the button on the top, in-between the two hammers that belt the crap out of the bell things to make that utterly stupid, stupid sound. Who the hell wakes up to something like that?

  Sweat pouring off me, heart rate of an Olympic sprinter, my face contorted in anger, Chris looks at me and tries to speak, but no sound comes out. He has eyes rounder than an owl’s and his mouth is open so far that he looks as though he has a flip-top head. Realising that my language was waaaay out of bounds and perhaps my reaction a tad extreme, I give a little smile and smooth my hair away from my face.

  He’s still looking at me, stupefied. He tilts his head on the side and creases his eyebrows, positioning his mouth as though he’s ready to speak, but still no sound comes out.

  “Ummm, sorry about that,” I whisper.

  He inhales and looks again as though he is about to speak, but, still nothing.

  “It’s very loud Chris, does it have a volume control?”

  He looks at the clock, turning it over in his hands. Then he looks at me, concern written all over his face, mixed with a touch of fear. But still, no sound. He walks around the bed and places the clock on his bedside table, patting it as if it needs comforting.

  “Think we’ll keep it on my side of the bed from now on,” he says, looking as though he’s glad there is a bed in-between us.

  “Yep, probably for the best. Sorry.” Don’t worry, Mrs O’Shane, I’ll be your roomie by lunchtime at this rate.

  He points to the bathroom, grabs his work clothes and leaves the room, looking back over his shoulder in disbelief, still unable to speak.

  I wave to him, mouth “Sorry” again and climb back into bed.

  “OK love, I’m ready,” Chris says after he has finished dressing.

  “Hmmm, have a good day,” I mumble, opening one eye to find him staring at me expectantly, “Why are you staring at me?”

  “Because you’re still in bed. I need to leave soon,” he says.

  “Well, off you go then. Have a nice day.” His eyes bore into me, so I peek over the blankets at him. “You’re still staring at me. Why?”

  “Because you’re still in bed.”

  “Didn’t we just have this conversation?” Just what is it I’m supposed to do? Congratulate him for getting himself dressed? Then it dawns on me, does woman’s work include cooking breakfast? No, that’s ridiculous, a grown man can get his own breakfast. But he just continues to stand in the doorway and stare at me.

  “And you’re still staring at me because…”

  He just cocks his head in the direction of the kitchen, smiling.

  Either I’m meant to perform some sexual act on him that will straighten his neck again or he’s waiting for me to get his breakfast. The sexual act would be preferable, I don’t have to open my eyes for that.

  “Am I supposed to…” pointing to the kitchen, confused.

  “Yes. You’re a housewife.”

  “Oh, I see.” Well that just sucks, doesn’t it? “Well I’d best get to my ‘women’s work’ then,” I say, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice as I begrudgingly get out of bed and trundle off to the kitchen. Normally Chris would be getting the kids ready, so this is really unusual for me. It’s also hard not to tell him to go a
nd get stuffed; last time I checked his arms and legs weren’t painted on, so why can’t he get his own bloody toast? It’s still dark outside, for goodness sake.

  He sits down at the table and says, “I’ll have some cereal, two pieces of toast and a cup of tea, thanks Jules, and don’t forget the tea for my thermos.”

  What is this, a restaurant?

  “What do you want on your toast?” I grumble.

  “Honey, thanks, love.”

  I flail around in the kitchen, clanging and clattering, muttering under my breath as he’s looking at his watch and then at me.

  “Love, I’ve got to go soon. It’s just toast and cereal, what’s taking so long?”

  A yogic breath big enough to shatter my lungs doesn’t even help. Mrs O’Shane.

  “Here you go, toast and cereal with tea, how’s that?”

  He looks at the toast with the intensity of a microbiologist verifying the plague.

  “Jules, I asked for honey on my toast, not Vegemite.”

  “It is honey, see?” I show him the honey pot.

  “Why is it all black then? Oh. I see now, it’s a bit…” He looks at me as he picks it up and turns it around.

  “A bit what?” If he complains about his burnt toast he’ll be eating it rectally.

  “A bit, um…” Then he thinks better than to complain about my burnt offerings. “It’s great, thanks love,” he smiles as he grimaces his way through his charcoal. It’s clear that he is in pain at having to eat it. But that’s alright, I’m in pain at having to make it. That sort of makes us even, doesn’t it?

  He laces up his boots and packs his bag.

  “Thanks for…ummm…breakfast, see you tonight love. Have a good day, don’t forget to see your family.”

  “OK, what time do you normally get home?”

  He takes me in his arms and kisses me. The kind of kiss that leaves a woman a bit floaty. The kind that wipes my memory of having to make his breakfast. The last time Chris kissed me like that was…too long ago to remember.

  “Around six, see you. Love you.”

  The last time Chris told me he loved me was… also too long ago to remember.