Indelible Ink (39 page)

‘It’s eight o’clock in the morning, Leon!’

‘I’ve been driving all night and I’m arse around with the time.’

Leon felt queasy. He hadn’t eaten. He went out to the ute to fetch his bags, took them upstairs and had a shower. His mother was lying on the couch when he came back down, asleep it
seemed. He went into the kitchen to make coffee and toast, and by the time he brought them out to the deck, Marie had roused and was sitting at the table, brushing the cat on her lap.

‘So what are the doctors saying? When do you start chemotherapy?’

‘They don’t know if I’ll have it yet.’

‘Why not? Don’t they need to act fast?’

‘The decision will be mine. I’m going in next week. One good thing about doddery old Mopoke, she’s very easy to brush now.’ Mopoke stretched her head out and the sound of
her purr rumbled over to Leon. Marie flipped her around like a cushion and began to brush her stomach. Mopoke squirmed feebly. ‘She’s on so many pills now, poor thing. More than her
mother.’

‘What are you on?’

‘Painkillers, laxatives, anti-nausea tablets.’

‘You have lost weight.’

‘I’ve been hearing that for months. It used to be a compliment.’

‘Are you in much pain?’

‘It comes and goes. It’s like bad indigestion. More irritating than anything.’

Leon waited for more but his mother just cooed and brushed the senile cat. ‘Clark said something about six months.’

‘Don’t worry, Leon, I’m going to beat this. Your mum is tough as old boots, you know.’ She swung her attention to his tattoo. ‘When did you get this?’

‘When I got to Brisbane. We talked about it. It’s nothing.’

He thought of the sauna and its parade of bodies, the guys who were desperate for you to see their tatts. How pointless it all seemed now. Or was it just her, barging in, shrivelling
Leon’s fantasy land? He regretted his dumb tattoo. Did his mother think they occupied the same territory?

‘You should be careful about getting too much sun on this, Leon. Who did it?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘It’s a Dayak design.’

‘It’s just a tribal tattoo, Mum.’

‘You could have got a Celtic armband. You’re half Celtic.’

She dropped his arm and left his hand in hers. Her clammy hand, like an amphibious animal. He hated her and hated himself for rushing down here. Of course she could beat the cancer; there were
new treatments all the time, most people survived it these days, didn’t they? Did Clark have any idea what he was talking about when he said six months? Leon stared out over the dry listless
garden. ‘I’ve never seen Sydney like this,’ he said wretchedly.

‘You’d be celebrating your mother’s side,’ Marie mused. ‘I don’t think your father has any Celtic ancestry.’

And why was his room the only one with a bed left in it? He would have preferred to stay in Clark’s attic. Lying on his back, a feeling of holiday boredom engulfed Leon. He went to the
window and, looking out at the harbour, the eternal blue sky and moving tree tops, he experienced a moment of disorientation, forgetting what time of day and even what month it was. It came to him
that it was the end of March, but with the heat it could have been January, October even, the hot one of last year. Time seemed to be standing still. All the while the disappearing seconds sapped
him. He could barely motivate himself to go to the toilet. He moved finally, throwing his dirty clothes into a corner then unpacking. Placing underwear in his old sock drawer, his fingers touched
glass. It was an old Vegemite jar, full of dust. He rolled it between his palms in surprise. It was a childhood time capsule, once containing the decoy tails of skinks caught by Mopoke that Leon
had collected as little trophies of saved lives. He had considered it years later when packing to leave home, the tails by then brittle as burnt matchsticks. Now the jar’s contents were
completely desiccated. He put it on the windowsill, letting light through it, wondering if his mother had deliberately saved it. His presence here didn’t make the slightest difference: he
couldn’t save her.

Susan rang when Marie was getting ready to go to the vet. ‘I’m sorry, Marie. I’m so sorry. First the sale of the house. Now this!’

‘That’s alright,’ Marie replied curtly. ‘It isn’t your fault.’ She wondered how Susan knew. The Mosman gossip mill gleely churning away, no doubt. She should
have charged entry fees.

‘Do you have a good oncologist?’

‘Yes.’

‘Because I was going to recommend Dr Rossmann who looked after Delia Braithwaite.’

‘Delia died. And Rossmann is at the Royal North Shore.’

‘Of course. Where are you?’

‘The RPA.’

‘What on earth are you doing at the RPA?’

‘That’s where the referred specialist was. The North Shore’s no better.’

‘You’re not wrong there. Women miscarrying in toilets and so on. And are you eating?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sleeping?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are they going to operate?’

‘No.’

‘When do you start chemotherapy?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘No.’

Mostly she was lying. The oncologist, Dr Wroblewski, was stiff and impenetrable. Eating was as difficult as sleeping. Chemotherapy as soon as possible was highly likely, and Susan could have
done plenty. But it was true they weren’t going to operate. The cancer was too advanced. It clung like an epiphyte to the wall of her stomach, millimetres from her spleen and liver. It was
buried in the very pit of her, yet she still could not accept it.

She had woken in a rage.

‘I knew there was something wrong with you.’ Susan began to cry. ‘I
knew
it.’

Marie held the phone away from her ear. She had fantasised about this moment often enough. By the sickbed of her dreams, perfidious friends and family would be sorry. All conversation would cut
to the chase; there would be no bullshit. The worst offenders would be turned away at the door. Desperate for entry, they would recognise their villainy and beg for her forgiveness. The fantasies
would end there, with her all-powerful in her throne-bed, deciding their fate.

‘When can I come and see you?’

‘Any time.’

‘Are your children with you? Louise said Leon was coming down.’

‘He arrived yesterday. Do you want a word?’

Leon had just walked into the kitchen, his face creased with sleep, and without waiting for an answer from Susan, Marie handed the phone to him. He looked at her enquiringly. ‘It’s
Susan,’ Marie whispered with a sadistic smile. She put the steaming phone into his hand then went to find her handbag.

What she hadn’t factored into her fantasies was the burden of allaying the distress of others, let alone facing her own. There was no door: everybody had free passage, just like the
tumour. And she wasn’t in bed, let alone on a throne. She was stuck in the corridor in the middle of the madding crowd. Illness clouded as it enlightened; old arguments remained unresolved.
She was sick of answering questions that were unclear even to herself, and ashamed of her dysfunctional body.

She needed to push them all away, she could only swallow the facts in private. This bitter pill, like a tapeworm writhing in her mouth, going down. She couldn’t bear their fear on top of
her own, hatching an army in her interior, ready for its rampant feasting.

She drove up to the Junction in a glorious roar of rage and burnt rubber, Mopoke on the passenger seat, chin and paws hanging over the edge. I’m not helpless, I’m taking my cat to
the vet. You think I’m sick? Look at
her
. I’m the nurse, not the patient. Don’t even think about changing lanes, you bastard. I’ve got right of way, I’ve got
cancer!

She marched into the waiting room with Mopoke, realising at that moment that she had come out with her arms bare. She scoured the seats for someone daring to gawk at her.
What would you
know?
she would say with a glare.
Have you got cancer?
But there was only a young man with a muzzled pit bull. One move on my cat, Marie thought, and you’re
dead
. The man
glanced up, smiled vaguely, then returned to his yachting magazine. Marie strode into the surgery ready for battle with her diminutive vet, but he took one look at her arms and lit up. ‘What
beautiful work! Who did those?’

‘Rhys,’ Marie snapped.

‘Rhys! I tried to get an appointment with her, but she was booked out.’ The vet rolled up his shirtsleeve and showed Marie the head of a tiger that was slinking around his elbow.
‘I got this done by Huey. Do you know him?’

‘No,’ said Marie, taken aback. ‘It’s lovely.’

Mopoke crouched on the table between them. The vet secured his sleeve, put his hands on the cat and cooed. ‘And how are we today, Moey?’

‘She’s having trouble pooing again.’

‘That’s because her hips are getting so frail. The arthritis.’

Mopoke let out a long miaow. ‘It’s alright, sweetie.’ Marie stroked her.

The vet picked up the cat, kissed her on the forehead, and took her into the room adjacent to give her an enema. Marie stood behind the closed door, and at the sound of Mopoke howling, tears
burst out of her face.

Blanche caught a cab into town to drive Marie home from hospital in Marie’s car. Marie had parked on Missenden Road and, by the time her consultation was finished, a fine
had been slipped under the windscreen wiper. She looked pale and unsteady as she shut her door. Blanche steered into the traffic. ‘This was the last test, wasn’t it?’

‘For the time being.’

‘God, it’s endless. Are you in pain?’

‘They gave me pethidine.’ Marie closed her eyes behind her sunglasses. She was happy that Blanche was taking her home but also wished she was alone, so she could fart freely. The
longer she held her wind, the more the cramps increased.

Broadway was a concrete valley divided by a stagnant metal river. Blanche wondered if her mother was asleep or merely absent. She inched down the hill.

Marie had her eyes open now and was looking out the window. ‘I’m sorry you have to do this awful drive, Blanche.’

‘It’s fine. But I don’t understand why you aren’t at the North Shore.’

‘The Pacific Highway would be just as bad, wouldn’t it?’

‘Probably. And it’s a bit of an abattoir, that hospital by all accounts. The traffic’s bad because everybody’s avoiding the cross-city tunnel.’

‘So they should.’

‘I use it. It’s quicker. Work pays.’

‘All these bloody tunnels and roadways. They carve up the city into little fortified towns then they make us pay for it. It’s a form of segregation.’ Saying so much made her
bilious; Marie tried to settle her stomach.

‘There’s no public transport, and we need to get around. In all the surveys, people prefer cars. You can’t turn back the clock, Mum. Sydney’s a car city.’

‘Well, I’m sick of it. I’m going to move over this way, so I won’t have to drive so much.’

Another pointless conversation about the future. Unlike her brothers, Blanche didn’t believe her mother would survive long enough to set up another house, but she played along.
‘We’ll find somewhere for you to rent while you recuperate. Hugh’s pretty confident he can stretch the settlement to three months. The owners don’t want to move in
straightaway.’

The
owners
, thought Marie. ‘They’re going to renovate, aren’t they,’ she said flatly.

Blanche said nothing.

By the time they reached Elizabeth Street, Marie could hold on no longer. A damp gust escaped and she sat there mortified. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s okay.’ Blanche wound down the window and switched the air-conditioning to full. She gulped some air then told her mother, in an attempt at solidarity, ‘My chiro
does this thoracic adjustment where he lifts me up from under the shoulders with a towel against my back, and yesterday, instead of cracking me, this big fart came out.’ She laughed to help
the story along. Marie responded feebly. She could feel her mother’s effort and pain. She could still smell her. She tried not to gag.

On entering the house, Blanche immediately went to find Mopoke. She was shocked by the crotchety wobble and poking hip bones. She plunged her nose into the fur. ‘She smells like old
lady.’

‘I’ll take it that’s a compliment.’ Marie opened her handbag and stared in vaguely. She sat at the kitchen table then stood with a strange expression on her face and left
the room. A thrumming began in her ears as she entered the bathroom then she was sliding down the wall. She slumped on the floor, head roaring, tiles icy beneath her sweating palms, then she
crawled over to the toilet and hung over the bowl, every organ in her body heaving. There was nothing but bile. She gargled and splashed her face, then sat on the toilet till she had regained her
balance.

‘You look like your name,’ she said to her daughter back in the living room.

‘Christ, we’re a pair, aren’t we. I just threw up in the laundry.’

Marie took off her shoes and lay on the couch. ‘Have you had a pregnancy test?’

Blanche looked incredulous. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d had sex with Hugh, besides which, they used condoms. He slid into her mind as he had been that morning,
pouch-eyed, saggy-hipped, slurping juice from the carton. She pushed him away. ‘I think I’ve got a bug. You’ve run out of lime cordial.’

‘Leon will be home with the shopping soon. I used to throw up constantly for the first three months, and with you I had something called hyperemesis. They put me in hospital for five
days.’ She lay there stroking the cat, enjoying the breeze and the return of hunger. ‘Blanche, darling, what we both need is mint and lemongrass tea. And toast with Vegemite.’

‘Okay.’

Blanche walked down the stairs and through the rumpus room into the garden. The mint was scorched but the lemongrass was thick and high, sprouting seeds in the middle. She clasped some roots and
yanked. One came free, the other sliced her palm. She began to cry. She cursed Terry and everyone at work. She picked some scorched mint, unable to stop crying. She felt like an idiot. She went
into the laundry and ran water over the cut and rinsed her eyes, then went back upstairs.