The Happiness Show (10 page)

 

When Jules and Lizzie pulled up, it was almost dark. The front and back doors were open, waiting for the coming storm to cool the place down, and Lizzie could see right through their little bungalow to the fig tree out the back. Suddenly it hit her how many things could have gone wrong while she was away. The house was still there, the kids were still there, Jim was still there and she realised she was very excited to be home.

Lizzie lugged her backpack down the path to the front door, leaving Jules at the car. She dropped her luggage to the ground and tried to open the screen door, but it was locked. She went around the back and as soon as she was inside, she could smell the stench of sickness. It was the odour of burnt toast, rubbish not taken out and two open bottles of flat lemonade on the kitchen bench. She could hear
Toy Story
playing in the lounge room and made her way up the hall.

Somebody had decorated the Christmas tree. She had completely forgotten about the holiday. Jim and Scarlet were asleep on the couch next to a couple of old bath towels and a bucket. Reuben was on the ground playing Lego, naked.

‘So this is what goes on when I'm not here,' Lizzie said.

Reuben looked up from his construction. ‘Mum!' Lizzie crouched down and he ran into her arms. ‘I missed you so much what did you bring me?' he cried in one breath.

‘You'll have to wait and see. Have you been good?'

‘I've been great! Ask Dad or Jules or Nana Myrna.'

Jim and Scarlet stirred from their sticky sick sleep.

‘See that lady over there?' said Jim to Scarlet in a croaky voice. ‘That's your mother.'

‘Hello, my poor sick darlings.' Lizzie sat down on the couch. The two of them reeked of gastro. It wasn't just diarrhoea and vomit. A primal scent seeped out of their skin, signalling other animals to keep away. Scarlet looked at her with groggy eyes, a blanket mark down one cheek.

‘I'd kiss you but I'm fairly sure you don't want this bug,' said Jim, blowing her a kiss. Scarlet kept staring at her like she was trying to place Lizzie's face. Suddenly there was a violent noise from up the hall.

‘Oi! Who do I have to root around here to get this door open?'

‘Sorry, Jules!' Lizzie raced to the front door and fumbled in the bowl of keys for the right one. ‘Hold your horses.'

‘Well, that's a nice how do you do. Look after your kids and your husband and pick you up from the airport and you lock me out. That'd be right.'

‘Well,' said Lizzie, opening the screen, ‘serves you right for barracking for Hawthorn.'

‘Ha, ha. Shall I put the kettle on?'

‘I was thinking beer, myself. I've got duty-free fags.'

‘You little ripper, Rita,' said Jules, before disappearing into the kitchen for a long neck, a couple of glasses and an ashtray.

‘Lizzie,' said Jim, handing her a bundle of Scarlet, ‘I really missed you.'

‘It's great to be back,' said Lizzie as she pressed her check against Scarlet's cold, clammy skin.

‘And Lizzie,' said Jim, ‘Scarlet's got a dirty nappy.'

 

Lizzie peeled opened her backpack and dished out the goodies while they gave her the rundown on the last five days. A water-propelled rocket for Reuben, a little purple bag for Scarlet, a signed first edition of
Culture and Imperialism
for Jim and a pair of silver earrings for Jules.

‘Who's that for?' said Reuben as he reached into her bag and pulled out a snow dome containing Big Ben.

‘That's mine, darling,' said Lizzie, and she took it off him and put it on the mantelpiece. ‘That's Mummy's special thing.'

There was a lightning bolt, a thunder clap and then the rain bucketed down.

 

There was only one thing worse than a 40-degree Christmas and that was a dank, overcast 30-degree Christmas with almost 100 per cent humidity. As soon as you got out of the shower you felt grubby and revolting, even before your hair had dried.

Jim and the kids had recovered from the dreaded lurgy and the happy little tackers spent the morning wearing their brand-new Kmart clothes and fanging up and down on their brand-new Kmart bikes while Jim hung over the fence talking to the neighbours.

It was a picture-perfect Christmas morning but Lizzie didn't care because she was as sick as a dog. She spent the day sitting in the bath spewing, sitting in bed spewing and sitting on their back deck spewing. Jetlag plus gastro – it reminded her of being ten weeks pregnant. She felt as if she needed an exorcism and thanked God Jim had had a vasectomy. She loved kids, but not enough to go through the first trimester again.

Eventually, pale, weak and woozy, she was transported to her parents' place and installed in their backyard gazebo. Her mum sat on one side with her walking frame and her father on the other in his Smoky Dawson recliner. Suddenly she knew what it was like to be old.

‘Oh, gastro, don't get me started. I remember one year, good lord, we were all going both ends at once, weren't we, Ron? I was pregnant with you, Lizzie. Couldn't eat for days and I could have shat through the eye of a needle. Isn't that right, Ron? It's a miracle you came out in one piece.' Lizzie's mum gnawed on a chicken drumstick as she spoke. Lizzie could hear her dentures clicking.

‘Too right, Maureen, too right. Be a love, Lizzie, and get your old man a couple more spuds, would you?' He handed her his plate as he hacked away with the cough he'd had for years. ‘And don't be mean with the gravy.'

Donna and the Debbies hovered around with fags hanging out of their mouths, shooing flies off the pavlova and yelling at their kids. ‘Gavin, I told you, if you can't play nice you'll get a smack!'

‘Christian! Jesus you can be a little bastard sometimes. Give him back his remote control car.'

‘What are the Elfs up to now?' asked Jim, handing Lizzie a glass of water. ‘The Elfs' was Lizzie and Jim's private nickname for Lizzie's brothers' kids. It stood for Evil Little Fuckers.

‘You don't want to know, but I'll tell you what, Jim,' said Donna, taking a drag on her cigarette. ‘I understand why some mothers eat their young.'

‘Still feeling sick, Lizzie?' asked one of the Debbies. ‘Look on the bright side: you won't have to worry about working off Christmas lunch. You might even lose a few kilos.'

‘Thanks,' said Lizzie. ‘I hadn't thought of that.' As if she gave a shit.

 

After the traditional Christmas punch-up between her brothers, Lizzie and Jim plucked the kids from the sea of wrapping paper and threw them into the car. Lizzie loved the drive home over the West Gate Bridge on Christmas night. ‘Mission accomplished,' she always thought as she looked down at the twinkling lights of the oil refinery. They only ever had the one Christmas function to attend; Jim's mum was kind enough to bugger off to Albury each year to spend the day with her sister.

Lizzie wound down the window and tried to breathe in some relief. She just wanted to shake this gastro and for the world to snap back to normal. She hadn't eaten anything since Christmas Eve and she could tell Jim was a bit over it. And fair enough, too; he'd looked after the kids while she was away, coped with her being jetlagged and grumpy, and now she was down with gastro. He knew it wasn't her fault but his resentment was starting to show. The offers of drinks and the ‘You-sit-down-I'll-do-its' weren't as forthcoming, or as sincere. Which was something of a relief, really, because they only made Lizzie feel guiltier.

Boxing Day came and Lizzie began to feel better. She held down a couple of pieces of Vegemite toast and a cup of sweet milky tea and it felt like a miracle. She told Jim to go back to bed and have a lie-in and found she had a burning desire to clean everything. She flicked on her pink rubber gloves, pulled on Jim's painting overalls, got down on her hands and knees and scrubbed the place top to bottom. The kids followed her from room to room, happy to have her back.

Jim rolled out of bed just after noon. ‘What's all this?'

‘You know what they say,' said Lizzie, taking off the gloves. ‘It's not clean unless it's Pine O Cleen.'

‘They also say the burgers are better at Hungry Jack's. And anyway, since when do you give a shit if anything's clean?'

‘I don't, I just got possessed by the cleaning fairy. Put Scarlet to bed and you can get back to your book. I'm taking Reub over to Jules's place.'

‘Shall I come over when Scar wakes up?'

‘Great idea. Call me and I'll pick you up. And grab the ham. It's in a pillow case on the bottom shelf of the fridge.'

‘Don't worry about picking me up. If you take the ham now, I'll ride over.'

Lizzie grabbed Reuben and the ham and headed over to Jules's house in Carlton. It was the first time she'd driven since she'd been away and it was great to be back behind the wheel. Back in her little space. As she turned the key, the stereo jolted back to life.

It was Billy Bragg. And Tom came flooding back.

 

*

 

‘Celia's been downgraded from critical to serious, which is excellent. Felicity is fine. Beside herself, as you can imagine, but as well as can be expected. Yes, we'll call as soon as we have any more news. Oh yes, will do. Thanks. And Merry Christmas to you too.'

It was Christmas morning in London and Tom had lost count of how many people he'd called with the good news. They had been through three rounds of surgery, an infection scare and a suspected blood clot, but it looked like Celia would pull through.

It was freezing cold out on the smokers' porch and he huddled in a corner surrounded by old blokes with emphysema, young lads with tatts and pregnant women attached to drips, all of them smoking. This was the only place in the hospital for smokers and mobile phones, so it was cancer whichever way you looked. Given the extenuating circumstances, he'd taken to having a mid-morning and a mid-afternoon cigarette with his new friends.

‘Anuva durry, Mr Tom?' offered young Jason.

‘No, thank you, Jason, life might just be worth living now. And I've got to get back upstairs. The doctors do their rounds at 10.30.'

Tom ran to catch the elevator and hit the button for level four – intensive care. He was surrounded by people carrying flowers, Christmas gifts and helium balloons declaring ‘It's a Boy!' The little rubber band that had gripped his heart loosened a little.

When he got off at the fourth floor, he knew that if there really was a God, Celia would be transferred out of ICU and into a normal ward today, Christmas Day, of all days. He didn't believe in God but that didn't stop Tom from blaming him, praying to him or doing deals with him in times like this.

Celia's bed was surrounded by a cluster of doctors and a nurse changing Celia's IV. Felicity looked woeful; her skin was a bluish grey colour and there were big black rings under her eyes. She'd barely slept since the accident.

‘Mr Shorebrook,' said Dr Johansson. We've been discussing your daughter's recovery and we are all of the opinion that she should be transferred into a normal ward. If she continues at this rate, she should be downgraded to stable by tomorrow.'

‘What fabulous news,' said Tom, shaking their hands. Looking over at Celia, he saw that she had begun to stir. ‘Thank you so much.'

‘Thank that daughter of yours. She did all the hard work. I'll send an orderly up to move her downstairs.'

The doctors moved to the next bed and Felicity grabbed Tom's hand and smiled. ‘Merry Christmas, Tom.'

‘Merry Christmas, darling.' He leant over and kissed her on the lips. They looked at each other and sighed a
we made it
sigh.

‘And Merry Christmas to you, Celia,' said Tom, tweaking her nose.

Celia smiled weakly. ‘Dad?'

‘Yes, angel, what is it?'

She pointed to the end of the bed. ‘Are those presents for me?'

‘Yes, of course they are.'

They helped Celia to open her presents – karaoke machine, books,
Lady Gaga
CD and mp3 player. ‘Cool,' she said, and then she went back to sleep. Not unconsciousness, but sleep. Like normal people.

‘You go home, Flick,' said Tom. ‘Take a cab and put your head down. You look like hell.'

‘I don't think I can sleep,' said Felicity. ‘Maybe I'll go over to Becky and Keith's and have some lunch. If the spirit moves me, I'll have a kip upstairs.'

‘Good idea. I'll call you if there's any change.'

‘Thanks, Tom.' She put her arms around him and gently wept with relief. ‘I thought we were going to lose her.'

‘Me too. Me too. But we didn't.'

‘When Celia gets back on her feet, let's go on a holiday to celebrate.'

‘Great idea. Now off with you or I'll call the police.'

Felicity went on her way. It was good to have some space. They wheeled Celia downstairs to a room looking out over the rooftops of Hampstead. Without the machines and drips of intensive care she looked almost normal again. Tom sat by her bed in a comfortable armchair and, halfway through the second chapter of
Diary of a Wimpy Kid
, he fell asleep.

‘Mr Shorebrook? Tom?' He woke with a start and, finding a nurse leaning over him, looked anxiously at Celia. She was sleeping like a baby. ‘I don't know whether you remember me?' It was Helen, the nurse with the broad Australian accent.

‘Yes, of course. How are you?'

‘I'm fine. It looks like your daughter has pulled through.'

‘Yes, so far so good. Fingers crossed.'

‘She's a little trouper. I came to see how you were all doing and to give you this.'

Helen handed Tom his work satchel. ‘Remember you left it in the cab? I told you I'd track it down for you.'

‘That's right. Thank you. Sorry – I'd completely forgotten. It all seems so long ago.' He was so touched he thought he might burst into tears. He wanted to hug her. ‘Thank you so much. It's very kind of you.'