Sydney's Song (40 page)

“We're actually on the same page, honey. You sacrifice your creature comforts and you don't get frustrated with me. You're the one who has to
remind
me of a hundred details every day.”

“Rightio… you're the boss, Pete. And I'm the manager of the boss.”

Pete often hugs me out of the blue and says, “Thank you for putting up with me. I know it can't be easy for you. I'm very lucky.”But he is worth it. Although forgetful, my playful and quick-witted husband likes to make me laugh. Our marriage has given me a wonderful home and peace of mind, along with sizzling romance and immense physical bliss. Without real issues between the two of us, we can focus on work and on helping others. In our book, marriage means freedom to soar as free as a bird.

I listen to Pete cooing to Tessa now and she replies with adorable gurgling sounds. She is actually the last transient baby we will care for. The good news is… in several months we will have our very own baby!

How exciting. Pete is thrilled. Often we can't stop smiling…dreaming…

The phone rings.

“Sydney, where are you and Pete?” Sinead, who now has a degree in Early Childhood Education under her belt, asks anxiously.

She returned to Aussieland and married Jack a few years back.They had that dream wedding at Lisgar Gardens—with me as the bridesmaid. Now she works as a manager of a childcare centre in Gosford, while Jack still stays at the same call centre but as a manager.

Once Pete and I visited the old call centre before 1300500 moved away. Some friends of the original lot had slimmed down. Some were lost to cancer. Some gave birth. Some married. Some changed partners. Some changed gender.

Jack, Pete and Kevin regularly meet for “male bonding”—whatever that is. They go fishing and watching games. Handsome Kevin, who still parties hard and changes girlfriends at whim, recently received a promotion to head a research centre in medical physics. Now, the “boys” actually meet more often. But with work, babies and what-nots, it has been quite a few months since Pete and I last caught up with Sinead.

“You and Pete are supposed to be here for dinner,” Sinead whines.“The roast is ready.”

“Really?” I yawn, like parents of brand-new babies very often yawn. Pete and I have planned to remain lazy this evening. “I didn't know that.”

“But I phoned and talked with Pete to invite you guys and he said‘
Sure
'.” She imitates Pete's accent. “I said to come early, and he said‘
Sure
'.”

“Sinead… You know Pete's short-term memory. Looks like it slipped off his mind completely.”

My husband has been giving me proper singing lessons for years and years now. He has also given me piano lessons. He keeps encouraging me, saying my progress isn't hopeless. Well, so far I can hit the keys a bit to accompany him on short violin pieces. Of course, he plays breathtaking, soulful violin while my piano attempt is still…Well, let's just say Pete's sound-proof music room prevents me from offending our neighbours' ears. And… well, this afternoon we got a bit carried away in there.

Speaking of music, twice now the neurosurgeons at a prominent private hospital in Sydney have put him under the knife. They opened the back of his neck. They said fixing the nerves in his spinal cord would alleviate the severe pain and return the function of his right arm. Yet not much changed after two long and very painful spinal surgeries. That's right, the first one “failed”, so they did it again. “Failed” again, unfortunately. I knew they had tried, but I couldn't help feeling angry with them for inflicting these elaborate tortures on Pete. Now he can use his arm, but with constant lingering pain.

With his arm's condition and the permanent short-term memory loss, Pete can only teach. He has been giving private music tuition for kids interested in the classics.

“Sorry Sinead,” I say now. “Is it still on? Mind if we arrive an hour from now?”

That is how we go to dinner in Gosford. Baby in the capsule in tow, because we don't have the time to arrange for a baby sitter.

“So, how's life exactly,” Sinead asks me during dinner, “with a man who has a short-term memory?”

Pete and I shoot each other a look. The gleam in his eyes says he remembers our afternoon in his sound-proof music room, and my cheeks burn. He winks.

“Apart from the fact that if it rained every day of the week, he'd lose seven umbrellas?” I answered Sinead. “The plus side is that he's still fascinated anew in you even after ten years of marriage. Just like in 50 First Dates.”

And she laughs and laughs when I throw in the woes:

“Pete rang me twice to wish me a happy birthday,” Craig told me.

“Pete sent me gift vouchers twice for my birthday,” Lance said.

“Pete phoned me twice to wish me a happy Mother's Day,” Mum said.

“Pete called me twice to talk about the game's score,” Kevin said.

“Pete brought Bronson to me twice regarding his eyes,” the vet said.

“Pete thanked me twice for minding the baby while you went surfing,” Kate said.

“Darling,” I said, “these stack of seasons greeting cards, you were meant to drop them in the mail box four months ago. How come they're still in the glove box?”

Also, “Pete, you need to stop buying printer's ink. We have too many spare cartridges already.”

Or, “Pete, aren't we supposed to volunteer in Africa this summer?How come the confirmation says you've booked it for Nepal? It'll be freezing cold in the northern hemisphere, darling.”

And, “Pete, where are you?”

“In Australia, darling.”

“Seriously?”

“Prowling the car parks in Chatswood. I can't remember where I parked the Harley. Didn't I call you, honey? Thought I did. Sorry.Now I've looked on every level. Can't find it. I kinda thought I parked in Chatswood Chase but it's not there. I've just finished checking Westfield's car park. Not here either. I've been searching for over two hours now. But it's still somewhere in the southern hemisphere!”

And recently, “Hello,” greeted a bunch of Pete's musician friends—members of a visiting international symphony—when I answered the doorbell one Friday evening. And they came in and kissed my cheek and handed me lots of flowers and chocolates. “Thanks for inviting us over for dinner.”

Whaat? Bewildered, I whirled around. My gorgeous hubby came out from the baby's room, an eight-month-old boy on his hip. He looked surprised, then remorse and bashful.

“I'm sorry honey. I must have completely forgotten to tell you that I'd invited friends over for dinner. Please, could you mind Roger?” A most charming, apologetic smile lifted the corner of his beautiful lips. “I'll whip up something quickly.”

I looked at the guests apologetically, but despite this embarrassing blunder they had a hearty good laugh. Gathering in Pete's huge, comfortable kitchen, we chatted merrily as he delivered his magic.Of course, when Pete cooks, you don't allow him to leave the kitchen or he will easily get sidetracked and you end up with a burnt dinner.

Pete usually forgets things after sleep and after a change of room or location. I have come to suspect that when an item has been deleted from Pete's memory, it is gone. Brain exercise or no, there is no way he can retrieve it. If he has any knowledge about the deleted item, it is because others
tell
him later, and not because they are successful in
reminding
him. It is a second-chance knowledge, yet fresh and new to Pete.

What a relief mobile phones have been invented. Pete sets many alarms in his to remind him of his duties and appointments. And to take many pictures for the moments he wants to remember. Like the fiery autumn leaves of our romantic getaway, Dorrigo, or fallen rose petals covering our backyard, or the beautiful little fish he caught before kissing it and throwing it back to the ocean.

Pete remembers the names of all his teachers since kindergarten and everyone at NEC. He remembers everything he played as a child prodigy of eleven years old in a San Francisco concert. But he has difficulty remembering what his students were up to last week. So yeah, lately he has one phone with massive memory so he can record their progress easily.

Trouble is, often he forgets to take the phone with him and has to call home from a public phone, “Darling, I'm in the shops. What is it again that I have to buy?”

“Mmm, let me think… A diamond?”

Ia was born in the beautiful and remote, world's widest tea plantation by Mount Kerinci in Sumatra where her dad was the plantation's accountant, her mum a teacher. Her dad died when Ia was 13, and Ia moved across the ocean. She proceeded to become the busiest teen ever: playing in a drum band, tutoring maths, learning languages including English as the fifth language, and, at 17, a teen magazine published Ia's first fiction as a serial. Inundated by her fans' letters, the publisher printed it as a book, which was subsequently bought by the Indonesian Department of Education for high-school libraries.Ia used the proceeds to help fund her university studies, during which time she was active in aero-modelling, martial arts, mountaineering, speleology… and studied petroleum seismology among her music-playing friends. After her graduation Ia worked with French, Norwegian and American geophysical companies, besides being a volunteer translator.

In Sydney since 1995, Ia is a mum who does several kinds of volunteer work for the community, assesses manuscripts, and writes real-life socio-fiction. Her husband, who suffers permanent partial brain damage, says Ia now sleep-talks in English.

Part of SYDNEY'S SONG's proceeds will be donated to the Brain Foundation.

Visit
www.sydneyssong.net
to interact with Ia on her blog, guestbook, Twitter and Facebook.