Indelible Ink (57 page)

‘What’s this
it
bullshit?’ Blanche opened the freezer and began to move things. ‘She’s a
she
and she’s called Mopoke and she’s only lived
here about twenty years, which is almost as long as most of us.’

‘Blanche.’ Clark took her by the elbow. She shook him off and dropped the bag containing Mopoke. Clark seized it and went to the door, eyeing his sister warily. ‘We’re
taking it to the morgue.
Nellie
.’

‘Daddy.’

‘I’m doing what Mum would have done, you arseholes!’ Blanche began to scream. ‘She would’ve buried Mopoke in a fucking mink coat if she’d had one!’

‘Nellie, go and watch TV. Now!’

‘We can take the ute.’

‘No way!’

Clark wagged his finger. ‘Listen, you self-righteous little harridan, it’s just a cat, so get over it.’

Blanche flew at him, Clark raised his arms in front of his face and the package containing Mopoke clattered into the hall. Nell disappeared. Leon came over and tried to restrain Blanche,
everybody yelling, Blanche’s limbs flying. ‘I’m pregnant!’ she screamed. She kicked and punched her brothers, then charged into the hall and grabbed Mopoke, Leon pursuing
her but she was out the door and at the front gate, her voice ringing out through the night. ‘I hope somebody disposes of
you
when you die! I can’t
wait
.’

Hugh was eating dinner when she arrived home. ‘What’s that you’ve got there?’

‘Tomatoes.’

‘Looks like enough to feed an army. We bought some yesterday.’

‘They’re from my mother’s garden,’ Blanche explained, opening the freezer and placing Mopoke beside the ice trays.

‘Oh. I didn’t know she grew them.’

‘She grows everything, you know, Hugh.’

Early in the morning, Leon heard the creak of the shed door. He had barely slept. He went to the window. Seven a.m., drizzling, Blanche’s black-garbed figure moving
across the lawn. She had a garbage bag in one hand, a shovel in the other. She glanced up at the house and for a second looked so much like their mother that Leon almost panicked. He dressed
quickly and went downstairs to the hall cupboard for his Driza-Bone. He pulled out one of his mother’s raincoats then went into the garden.

Blanche turned her back on him. The rain began to fall more heavily.

‘Here, put this on.’ Leon helped her into the raincoat. She picked up the shovel and wandered from bed to bed, Leon following.

‘What about here?’

‘You’ll hit the root system of the grevillea.’

‘Next to the black bamboo?’

‘I think we should find a tree, maybe the lime. I’ll dig the hole if you like.’

Blanche handed him the shovel.

Leon found a spot and dug a hole. Blanche emptied the bags. Her manicured hands with their angular, silver rings had no qualms pressing the silk package to her face then placing it in the hole.
She threw a handful of dirt on top. The rain began to pour. Leon shovelled dirt over the grave.

‘Hang on a sec.’ Blanche went down to the rockery where they had accumulated a collection of fossil ferns in their childhood and picked some wattle. Leon patted down the earth then
Blanche placed the remaining wattle on top, pinning it down with a fossil fern as headstone.

Leon watched her crying. He couldn’t understand this outpouring of emotion for a cat. He remembered the wattle in bloom like a wall of fire along the northern side of the garden, Blanche
in front of it grinning into the sun. Or was this a photo that his memory had scanned and reproduced as its own issue? After Blanche had stormed out last night, Clark had put Nell to bed then
returned to the rumpus room where they had watched
Law & Order
and compared bruises. Clark claimed his shoulder killed, but there was no mark on it. Blanche had been right about Leon
hitting the cat. Almost two decades ago. Mopoke had brought in a spotted pardalote and dropped it on the floor before him. Leon had picked up the beautiful, tiny bird and watched it die in his
hand. In a rage, he had fetched the cat a great whack on her rump. He had never seen a pardalote since and still blamed the cat for this. He looked at Blanche crouched by the grave, curvy,
feminine, vulnerable. A scary fighter. They had all thought she would be an artist, then they had thought she would be the most successful female advertising executive in the country. Now she was
leaving the agency. She looked so tired and beaten, and she was pregnant, which in Leon’s mind erased everything else. He was bamboozled by how she stayed with that dolt Hugh. He
couldn’t imagine her being an artist. He stared at the back of her head, wondering what really drove her.

Shortly after Carla told her that Brian had died, Dr Wroblewski came to see Marie. For a second Marie hoped for good news, but all he had to offer her was the ritual of
examination, this dance of the western shaman. With fingers gathered into a beak he tapped all around her abdomen. She listened to the different percussions and wondered what her body was telling
him. Again, the flare of hope rose within her, despite the fact that everywhere hurt. Marie bore the examination silently until Dr Wroblewski reached a place that made her cry out. He withdrew and
she gathered the covers back to her chin.

‘Right. We won’t be able to let you go home yet. The tumour appears to have reached your liver. It may start bleeding.’

‘Please don’t give me any more chemotherapy. I keep vomiting.’

‘That’s the illness as well.’ He stretched his mouth into an apologetic smile. ‘The tumour in your oesophagus is spreading too.’

‘What are my options?’

‘Radiotherapy. But it could prove difficult marking you up with all those tattoos, and we can’t guarantee results.’

‘What would you recommend I do?’

‘I can’t make that decision for you, Mrs King.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Right. Must run. Think about what you want to do, and let us know.’

‘Please, Doctor,’ she said to his departing figure.

He turned and gave her a harried look.

‘I need some morphine.’

Ten minutes later Carla arrived. She turned Marie over and gave her a shot. Marie’s haunches were becoming bruised from the needles. Carla noticed how dry her skin was and offered to rub
cream into it. Marie lay on her side waiting for the drug’s warm light to part the clouds as Carla chatted and anointed her. She left two morphine pills by the bed. ‘If you can’t
hold them down, we’ll give you a fentanyl patch.’

‘There isn’t much point in any of this, is there?’

Carla sat on the edge of the bed. ‘In what?’

‘Chemotherapy, radiotherapy. Hospital in general.’

‘Well, the advantage of being in hospital is that when and if something goes wrong, you get instant help. In that sense you’re better off here. If you want to go home, we can send
someone in to discuss palliative care at home.’

Marie felt her eyes closing. She liked the sound of Carla’s voice. ‘I wish I could just fade away; feel like such a nuisance.’

‘It’s hard, but don’t worry about us — our job is to help you. Just think about what would be best for you.’

In the unearthly light of the shuttered room, Marie gradually entered reality. A figure was sitting by the bed. Difficult to make out his features. ‘Brian,’ she said.

‘Hey, Mum, how are you?’ It was Leon.

Marie struggled to prop herself upright and Leon came over to help. The pain was back. She reached for the pills. ‘Water, please.’ She drank them down. ‘The blinds. So we can
see each other.’

The sun poured in and, when Marie’s eyes adjusted, she saw Leon, glowing with health. ‘Brian died.’

‘Oh, Mum, I’m sorry.’ Leon took her hand. ‘We’re taking you home as soon as possible. Are you happy about that?’

Marie nodded. Home. The garden. Harbour. Cat. Home, how she longed for it. Then she remembered that she had to move house, and began to fret. Mopoke, how would Mopoke cope? She licked her lips,
a slow awkward manoeuvre, and formed the words. ‘How is Mo?’

‘She died, Mum. Two days ago. Blanche found her.’

Marie stared. Leon seemed to be talking on a distant stage. A bark emerged from her throat, half sob half protest. ‘Oh, how
could
she.’

‘Blanche didn’t do anything, Mum. She just found her under your bed in one of your shirts. Me and Clark were downstairs, we didn’t know, we didn’t want to tell you
straightaway because you were in treatment, we tried to give her a good funeral. Blanche buried her in your blue silk shirt, I hope that’s okay. She’s under the lime tree. I’m
sorry, Mum.’

Marie withdrew her hand and shut her eyes. Brian. Mopoke. Too much. She was aware of Leon getting up and leaving. Her gorge rose and she tipped forward to vomit on the bedcovers. There was the
sound of running water then Leon coming out of the bathroom. ‘Oh god. It’s black.’ He grabbed some paper towels and cleaned it up. He disappeared into the bathroom then returned
with a damp towel and pressed it to her face and hands. ‘We’re taking you home tomorrow, Mum. We’ll get you better.’

‘I’m not going to get better, Leon. I’m dying.’

‘I know.’ It was the first time Leon had been able to say it, and he felt vastly relieved.

He lay a fresh towel on the bedcovers and stayed with his mother until she fell asleep. ‘It’s raining,’ he said at one stage. ‘We’ve had three days’
worth.’

Later, she was alone in the dim room. Was it dusk or dawn? The window glaucous,
rat-tat-tat
of rain, overcast light inside and out. There was a fresh bedcover and Carla was hooking her up
to a drip.

‘You’re dehydrated, Marie. We’re going to give you at least two bags before we let you go.’

The clock said twenty past eleven and Marie realised it was morning. She wasn’t sure if it was the day that Leon had visited or the following, meaning the day she would be going home. She
didn’t want to reveal her disorientation by asking. What difference did it make anyway? She extended her arm to Carla, then her haunch. Carla did her job and left. And the morphine fever, the
pain burning through, and on her cracked lips the taste of blood. She managed to pull the covers up and fell into a light sleep.

The next time Marie woke, she felt refreshed, even jubilant. Carla had left the window ajar, and from the bed Marie could see clouds in procession moving over the city. They were soothing and
fascinating to watch, like waves. As the drug receded and her body hydrated, Marie became alert. Again, the thought of her impending move from Sirius Cove assailed her and she sighed in vexation.
She squeezed some paw-paw cream onto her lips. She realised that her jubilation had come from the simple fact of waking and having a clear head. She no longer expected to live beyond the next day.
This was it. The final sickness. The ultimate threshold.

Still there were little pleasures and necessities. When Carla released her from the drip, Marie got out of bed and stretched. She washed herself cursorily at the basin and rubbed cream into her
skin. The tattoos consoled her, like the company of friends. She chose the spotted silk pyjamas that Blanche had bought her, saying out loud, ‘Dear Blanche, aren’t they gorgeous.’
She dressed, brushed her teeth and hair, put on a little eyeliner, then returned to bed.

Just as she was finishing lunch, there was a knock on the door. Marie called out and a man in a tweed jacket appeared.

‘Hallo, I’m Father Dwyer,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Carla said you might want to see me.’

Marie sat up confused but not displeased. ‘Come in.’

The priest came in and sat in the visitor’s chair. He was about her age, with a florid complexion and receding hair that lifted off his scalp in comical wisps. His eyebrows were similarly
scattered, his collar rumpled, giving him an air of having just woken. Marie discerned a tiny gold crucifix buried in his lapel. She felt an immediate tribal bond. She was glad she had washed and
was wearing her best pyjamas.

‘How are you today, Marie?’ Father Dwyer asked.

‘I’ve perked up a bit.’

‘You’re looking good. Are they taking good care of you?’

‘Carla’s been very kind.’

‘She’s an excellent nurse, isn’t she? I had her when I was sick.’

‘What was wrong with you? Were you in here?’

‘I was just across the hall. I had bowel cancer four years ago.’

‘And look how well you are.’

‘I’m a very lucky man.’

A flutter of hope passed through Marie. Then fatalism, tinged with jealousy. ‘Father, I’m not going to recover, you know.’

‘I know.’ His expression remained utterly unsentimental. ‘I see you’ve been reading the Gospels.’

‘Yes, they were in the drawer. When I’m not too out of it, I read.’

‘How are you finding them?’

‘The Bible is a beautiful book.’

‘Isn’t it? Never dates, never tires.’

‘Some of it does. All that preaching in the New Testament against the laws of the Old.’

‘Yes, a lot of those early writings needn’t be taken literally.’ The priest examined a spot on the blanket, his eyebrows rising as he warmed to his topic. ‘But you know,
I saw an interesting documentary about a man going around the Middle East looking for archaeological evidence of the floods and fires and so on. I’m not a creationist, Marie, but what this
man unearths is really quite extraordinary.’

‘There’s a source for every story. And all that non-attachment, the relinquishing of things. Even family. Jesus is like Buddha in some ways.’

‘That’s right, in many ways, actually.’

‘The discipline of prayer.’

‘Yes, it is a discipline. It’s a pleasure too.’

‘People talk about meditation in that way. I’ve heard of people beating cancer with meditation.’

‘Is that right?’

‘I was never good at it, Father.’

‘What?’

‘Discipline, prayer. I haven’t prayed in decades. I thought I might try meditation when I got sick, but I just couldn’t be bothered. And I’ve bought enough material goods
for ten lifetimes.’

‘That doesn’t matter.’

‘How can you say that?’

Father Dwyer looked taken aback. ‘It’s between you and the Lord.’

‘Well, according to the Gospels, it would matter to him. Jesus is much more of a zealot than I remembered. It’s heaven or hell, if you do this or that, and that’s
it.’