Hindsight Page 24

  Will is still to sit his scholarship exams, and as for me returning to my own life afterwards…who knows? Perhaps there is no going back now. Part of me is OK with that thought. This is not something that I wished for, but it is something the universe saw fit to throw at me; a different life as a different person, a better person. Charles Darwin always said that the species most likely to survive is not the strongest or the smartest, but the one that is most adaptable to change.

  Chapter 23

  It’s now September, the start of spring and all things new beginning-ish. The days are longer again and, thankfully, much warmer than they were in winter. After three months of eating stodgy food, casseroles and warm dishes, I am ready to attack a salad or two.

  Today is the day that Mum’s letter will be read. I encourage myself to open the letter and read it, and make myself quasi-comfortable at the kitchen table. The envelope is thick parchment and has yellowed over the 24 years it has remained buried amongst Gran’s belongings, and the two months it has been lurking in my dresser drawer. At least once a day I would look over to where it lived and ask myself if today was the right day to open it. But there was never an answer. Today, however, is the day.

  The smell of oldness is released upon opening the envelope; the musty smell of time that sits in the back of your throat, stains my fingers. I unfold the letter, and the perfect penmanship of yesteryear is revealed in neat rows of cursive script, slanting to the right in black ink. My heart races and a slight tremble overtakes me as it sits in my hands, willing me to read it. Suddenly, all strength escapes me and I move to fold it up and bury it back in the drawer, deeper this time so that its cries won’t be heard quite so loudly. But what would be the use of that? It will still be there, hanging over me like a noose.

  “Hello? Jules, are you there?”

  It’s Lily, thank God

  “Come on in, Lily, the door’s not locked.”

  “Hi Jules, sorry to interrupt, I was just wondering if I can borrow some butter, please?”

  “Of course,” I say, springing to my feet.

  A look of concern crosses her face. “What’s wrong lovey? Are you alright?”

  “Yes, all fine. I was just about to open Mum’s letter…”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’ll come back later,” she says as she turns to leave.

  “No, no. Please stay. Truth is, I don’t want to be alone when I read it. Would you mind staying?”

  “Of course, let me make some tea.”

  She busies herself in the kitchen, while I sit and stare at the letter, half stuffed back in its envelope. After a sip of steaming hot tea I take it out again, unfold it and stretch it out in front of me. Nothing has changed, the black ink is still on the page.

  “I’m not sure that I can read this.”

  “Would you like me to read it to you?” Lily asks.

  A weight has been lifted off me. “Yes, yes I would. Thanks, Lily.”

  She gently takes the letter out of my hand and clears her throat.

  “Just say if you want me to stop, alright?”

  I nod and inhale a yogic breath, bracing myself for what I am about to hear.

  “Dear Mother and Father,” she starts. “As you well know my life has not been blessed with strength, and I know that it must have been a terrible disappointment to you both to have a child such as myself amongst your brood of healthy, happy, brave children. Please know that my disposition was never a reflection on yourselves, but merely my own inability to deal with life with the courage and positivity the rest of you possess. It is no one’s fault, it was just how I was made.”

  “My William made each day bright and beautiful. His love and belief in me carried me as though I was on the wings of angels, soaring through Heaven, breathing in each color of the rainbow and feeling every single raindrop on my skin for the very first time. Every day with him was more perfect than the last. Our life was a paradise, and the birth of our two little girls made me happier than I had ever dared imagined. Although there were times when I struggled, William gave me strength and reason to find my way back into the light.

  But with William’s death, the darkness has engulfed me again, overwhelming me to the point that all I see is despair, loneliness and fear. The rage that resides within me is alive and it takes all of my strength not to succumb to it, not to act out my deepest desire to destroy all that surrounds me. My greatest fear is not for myself, but for our girls. What if, in a moment of rage, I hurt them? My bitterness has caused me to spit words of hatred and blame at Juliette every day, and I fear the damage I have already done will be dwarfed by what I could do in the future.”

  “My soul has already left my body in search of William, and I would rather my girls remember me as a loving mother and wife, than live with the monster that I have become.”

  “I know that they could be in no better hands than yours, and I apologise again for my actions today, but it is best for everyone that I go. I do not believe that I will be rewarded by spending eternity with William; it is time for me to pay for my sins in front of our merciful Lord, or be cast down to Hell for the ruined lives I leave behind. “

  “Please tell Dash and Juliette that I love them too much and will always be with them.

  All my love,

  Eleanor.”

  Like a smack upside of the head, it comes to me. Mum was depressed. Depressed or manic or suffering some kind of mental illness. Now she’s clinically insane. Whatever it is that afflicts her in this life, no doubt, afflicted her in my own life, but it was written off as alcoholism by all the doctors, her family and Dash and myself. None of us paid enough attention to her to figure out that the root cause of her troubles was mental illness. The alcoholism was only a symptom, a mask. Why didn’t we see it?

  Without my knowing it, my eyes are leaking again. Silent tears have rolled off my chin and saturated my sleeves. All the memories of my mother are so awful, so full of dislike for each other, that it stuns me to find that it was all because of a mental illness, not because she actually hated me. It was the chemicals in her own head that caused her behavior. It wasn’t a conscious choice.

  As though someone has kicked me in the guts, the sickness and anxiety that have resided deep inside of me for years rises up in a chokehold. Hands clasped to my mouth, I run to the toilet and vomit so violently that I am knocked off my feet, landing on my hands and knees. Lily runs in behind me to hold my hair back while I retch up every morsel of food that has passed my lips in the five months since my arrival.

  “It’s OK lovey, let it all out, it’s OK,” she whispers, her hand rubbing my back like a baby’s.

  Finally, there’s nothing left. The next yak will bring up my toenails. Then, for no reason, after ten minutes of vomiting and dry retching, I burst out laughing.

  “What’s so funny Jules?” Lily asks.

  “You’re one hell of a vomit coach, you know that?”

  “What?” She looks puzzled, and a little grossed out.

  “I certainly let it all out, I think the toilet’s blocked. Thanks for the encouragement,” I laugh.

  Then Lily begins to giggle. “Well, it seemed important to encourage you the best I could.”

  “They say you can judge how much someone loves you by their willingness to hold back your hair while you vomit.”

  “I’ll be the first to hold back your hair any day,” she smiles, “but let’s get you cleaned up. I love you, but you stink. I’ll clean up in here, you go and jump in a hot shower. Let it all wash away.”

  Thank God for Lily. That letter would have sat in its prison for another 24 years if she hadn’t been here today, and that would have been an awful shame because I may never have known the truth about my mother. Perhaps forgiveness can begin; perhaps I can heal now.

  The day of redemption has arrived and left me unable to sit still. The last visit to my mother, seventeen years ago, was at her funeral, where she was in the process of being cremated, so the thought of seeing her again is unnervi
ng, to say the least.

  What will she look like? Will she resemble a stereotypical crazy woman, with grey hair sticking out at all angles, mouth caved in from lack of teeth and fingernails chewed down to her knuckles? Will she cackle like a witch, rock to and fro incessantly or eat bugs? The fear of the unknown is the greatest fear of all, and today, there’s so much I don’t know that it terrifies me.

  Gran, Uncle Din and I leave after the school drop off, so the time available to freak out is limited. Aunty Maeve collects Cal and takes him back to her house for some spoiling. The drive is pleasant but it’s odd to see so much of Melbourne still undeveloped and unrenovated.

  Elevated on the Melbourne skyline, the Kew Asylum is an imposing structure, even in modern times, and is clearly visible from most northeastern suburbs. It is instantly recognisable by its charcoal slate roof, rendered cream walls, central cupola and elongated wings stretching out along the landscape as though it could take flight. Towers cap off each wing, making the Mansard roofline symmetrical.

  The entire asylum could be beautiful, taking its place amongst the palatial buildings of the Champs-Elysees or housing heads of state. Wisened oaks, as symmetrical as the building itself, line the winding driveway from Princess Street, ending in the elliptical driveway in which we park. The grounds are immaculate and could be mistaken for the Royal Botanical Gardens. Lavender and rose fill the air, mixing with the scent of pines and gum trees to create a calming, earthy potpourri that captures the heart of the English countryside and Australian bush. The grass is so green that it looks as though it has been Photoshopped; lush and luxurious, it invites a barefoot stroll between the numerous fountains and wrought iron bench chairs.

  If it weren’t for the mournful aura of the place, it would be majestic, but sorrow leaches through the walls and is arrested by the high bluestone and redbrick fences. A place where people exist like ghosts, forgotten, shamed, rejected by society for their ills. A place where souls are broken. It’s doubtful that even death would set a spirit free from here.

  We walk through a long corridor, past dormitories crammed with perfect rows of wrought iron beds wrapped in grey blankets and headed by white pillows, into an internal courtyard. To one side is a series of rooms, populated by women dressed in dowdy navy pinafores, shapeless white shirts and black slip-on shoes performing washing duties like wind up robots. Their faces expressionless, eyes vacant, it’s not possible to guess their ages, but I am willing to bet that their chronological ages are far less than their aesthetic ages. The only animation comes from a woman who rabbits away at another who seems not to hear her colleague; it is only when she leaves the area that I find she was actually talking and screaming at herself.

  My instinct is to turn around and run for my life before this poisonous atmosphere infects me and I, too, am locked in here forever. My chest closes in on itself and the air is stuffy, despite being out of doors.

  “Here she is,” Gran says, standing to greet her daughter, who is walking towards us with the gait of a honeymooner. Her grey hair is flecked with mousy brown and brushed into a jaw-length bob, framing skin that is smooth as silk. There are no wrinkles or creases, only smile lines surrounding her thinned lips. She is a mixture of young and old woman. A good day at the hairdressers and she could emerge looking 25 years younger than she is.

  “Eleanor, how are you, my dear girl?” Gran asks, opening her body up but not encroaching on Mum’s space.

  “Physical contact has to be instigated by Eleanor, Jules,” Uncle Din whispers to me. “Until we get here we’re never quite sure what frame of mind she will be in, whether she’s lucid or not.”

  Sounds like an episode of Thank God You’re Here.

  Mum smiles at Gran and gives her a small, polite hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  “Gran, how lovely of you to stop by. And Dad, how are you?” She embraces Uncle Din.

  It’s clear that she has no idea of her proper relationship with either of them.

  “Well, thanks love, how about yourself? You’re looking a million dollars,” Uncle Din plays along.

  Mum smoothes her pinafore down and looks at her feet. “Thanks, Dad. Now, who’s your friend?” she asks, gesturing to me.

  Frozen on the spot, all words leave me. All thought ceases. What do I say?

  “This is Juliette. Do you remember her?” Gran asks.

  Mum tilts her head from side to side and inspects me up and down like a catwalk model. Then her face lights up. “Juliette, did you say? Oh, how beautiful! I have a little girl with the same name. What a coincidence.”

  She takes my hand in hers and shakes it gently. Her touch is soft, her skin warm. She’s real.

  “H-h-hello, nice to…meet you, Eleanor,” I say.

  “You even look a little like my girl,” she says. “My Juliette is only eight though, such a darling little girl. A bit naughty. She can be a handful at times, can’t she Gran? And she’s such a daddy’s girl. Has him wound around her little finger.”

  “Yes, just like you, Eleanor. Like mother like daughter,” Gran nods.

  “He’s powerless against her smile. She has his smile, you see, Juliette,” Mum informs me.

  Stunned into silence, I nod politely and force my lips to curve upwards.

  “And my Dash, such a little homemaker. Always helping around the house, baking and cleaning. She’ll make a wonderful Mum one day. But my Juliette, mark my words, she’ll be trouble for some poor, unsuspecting young man. She’ll capture his heart and then flutter her eyelids to get her own way all the time, and it will all be her father’s fault. He just can’t say no to her, even when he knows he should. Of course I do say no to her, often, because I think she needs to hear it. After all, the world won’t embrace her stubbornness like her father does. Mind you, despite our differences, I love her dearly. “

  A tear threatens to fall out the corner of my eye and my lip begins to quiver. Gran looks at me and squeezes my hand.

  “Look, I’ve bought you some chocolate, darling,” Gran says as she hands Mum a small block from her handbag.

  “Oh my! How wonderful. Thanks, Gran. I was just saying to William, it’s been such a long time since we shared some chocolate. It was so hard to come by during the war and Depression. But times look as though they’re picking up now, don’t they? Let’s take a seat, would you like some tea?”

  I don’t know what to say — she has no idea that she’s not at her home.

  “Not right now, thanks, love,” Gran says as we all sit down on the bench seats in the courtyard.

  “What have you been up to, love?” asks Uncle Din.

  “Well, we’ve been very busy lately, Dad. William and I have been quite the social butterflies, what with the dancing season open again. And we went to the cinema to watch Mutiny on the Bounty. Oh, that Clark Gable is such a handsome man. Of course the girls keep us busy too. It was Dash’s birthday last week and we had a fabulous garden tea party for her and six of her little friends from school.”

  It’s like a car crash. I can’t look at her but I can’t look away either. Transfixed by her effervescence, my mouth is permanently open. Who is this woman?

  We carry on the conversation for another thirty minutes and then it’s time to go, but not from our own instigation.

  Mum stands and we take her lead.

  “Well, it’s been a lovely chat, Gran, but I’m afraid I must go now. William will be home soon and there’s washing to fold, dinner to prepare, and two little girls to bathe and put to bed. Why don’t you come to lunch next Sunday? I’ll do a lovely roast and we can have a wonderful visit together. Say around twelvish?”

  She kisses Gran and Uncle Din on the cheek and shakes my hand again. “It was certainly lovely meeting you, Juliette. Just wait until I tell my little princess that I met another Juliette today. She’ll be so happy!”

  And then she is gone, almost skipping back to her work station, looking forward to greeting her husband when he arrives home from work.

  “She see
ms so…” What’s the right word? Insane? Deluded?

  “Happy?” Gran says.

  “Yes, I guess so.” The visit has left me confused, unable to make sense of it. My experience with the mentally ill is limited to the narcissism and severe insecurity of some of my clients. “Is she always so happy?”

  Both Gran and Uncle Din shake their heads. “No! Today was a good day, love. She swings from chirpy to the depths of despair and back again. Your Gran always rings the morning of a visit to see if it’s worthwhile going,” says Uncle Din.

  “There are days where her temper is vile, risen from the pits of Hell she has. Then there are days like today, and other times she’s non compos mentis — no one home at all. The worst days of all are when she’s lucid and remembers everything; William’s death, hurting you, leaving her home to go and live there.” Gran’s face fills with sadness. “Those are the hardest days.” She stares out the window for the rest of the trip home.

  The rest of the day leaves me unsettled, unable to finish anything I start. The woman today was a different woman to my own mother. She was so focused on her husband. Obsessed. Nothing else was important. Is it possible that we are more alike than I thought? Except my obsession is achievement. Is that even possible? There’s very little clarity of thought until Lily arrives for the school pick-up.

  “How’d you go today, lovey?” she asks.

  “She was…I don’t know how to explain it. She left us to go and make dinner for Dad and bathe Dash and I. She didn’t recognise me, but was thrilled that I had the same name as her daughter — her eight year old daughter.”

  “Oh, so it was a good day for her, then?”

  “I suppose so, yes. You know, it must be so hard for her when she has moments of lucidity and the reality hits her.”

  “I can’t imagine living in one of those places. Just seeing it on the skyline makes me uncomfortable. I don’t know if it was built there to remind us or to watch us,” Lily shivers.