The Sun in Her Eyes (4 page)

‘He’s just here.’ Liz’s voice carves into my thoughts. She slows down as we walk into a ward, consisting of a four-bed bay with blue curtains pulled around each of the
beds. Liz goes to the first on her right and peeks through a crack in the material.

‘Len,’ she says softly. ‘Amber’s here.’

A noise comes from behind the curtain. That didn’t sound like anyone I know, not least the father I love dearly.

I feel like I’m having a moment of déjà vu as Liz moves aside to let me past.

My dad is lying on the bed, but he doesn’t look like my dad. The right-hand side of his face has slipped, like he’s a painted portrait of someone that has been left half out in the
rain.

Liz pushes me forward.

‘Amber has just arrived from London, Len. Doesn’t she look well for someone who’s been on a flight all night?’

He groans.

‘It takes a bit of getting used to, but you can generally make out what he’s saying,’ Liz tells me as though he’s not there.

‘Has he tried writing it down?’ I hate myself for joining in this conversation with her about him when he’s right in front of us.

‘He can barely lift his arm, let alone write.’ She nods at the seat by his bed. ‘Sit down.’

I hesitantly do as she says. Dad slowly raises his left hand and I reach across and take it, my eyes welling up. He says something else that I can’t understand.

‘He says don’t cry,’ Liz says, before adding loudly, ‘She’s not crying, Len. Amber doesn’t do tears.’

I stare at her, startled. How would she know? Then I remember that I never gave her the satisfaction of seeing me cry when I was a teenager. Her comment does the trick in any case. My eyes are
dry now.

‘He gets tired very quickly, so we won’t stay long,’ Liz says. ‘But we’re seeing an improvement, aren’t we, Len?’

If this is an improvement, I can’t begin to imagine what he was like three days ago.

‘Will he get better?’ I ask, trying to ignore the lump in my throat.

‘That’s the plan, isn’t it, Len?’

It’s irritating how she keeps repeating his name. I wonder if it’s irritating him, too.

‘I’d like to speak to your doctor,’ I say to Dad, steadily meeting his brown eyes. ‘Are you able to get him for me?’ I ask Liz over my shoulder.

‘I can tell you anything you need to know.’

‘Still, I’d like to speak to his doctor,’ I reply firmly.

‘He’ll be doing his ward round soon,’ she says. ‘Or has he already been by, Len?’

This time I can understand him when he says, ‘No.’ It’s a start.

I squeeze his hand and a moment later he returns my gesture. I smile weakly and kiss his knuckles. His hand feels bony and his skin is dotted with liver spots. Did he look this old before his
stroke? I’ve been away for too long.

Liz and Dad live in a small, old (for Australia) colonial Victorian house in Norwood, a few minutes’ walk away from Norwood Parade, a part of the city that is bustling
with cafés, shops and restaurants. It’s gorgeous, with white-painted weatherboarding, a corrugated iron roof that has pretty wrought-iron detailing around the eaves, and a white picket
fence out the front. It’s not the house I grew up in – it’s not even the house I spent my teenage years in. This is
their
home, and I am very much a guest here.

Liz wheels my suitcase into the spare bedroom, which has a view out to the next-door neighbour’s carport. If I stand and face the door, Dad and Liz’s bedroom is to my left,
overlooking the street, and the kitchen is to my right, opening up onto the backyard. The one and only bathroom (eek!) is through the utility room adjoining the kitchen. The living room and dining
room are opposite the bedrooms. It’s only a single-storey, as so many Australian homes are, so there are no stairs, thankfully. This is a bonus for when Dad returns home.

‘I need to pop into work to pick up some papers I forgot to bring home yesterday,’ Liz says. ‘Are you planning on taking a nap?’

She, like Dad, works in education. She’s a lecturer in psychology at the university, and he’s an assistant head at a primary school not far from here. They’re both in their
early sixties and approaching retirement, but this could be it for my dad. The thought is a sad one.

‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘Do you want me to do anything for dinner?’

‘No, no.’ She bats me away. ‘We’ll get chicken and chips from down the street.’

‘I can get it if you tell me what time you want to eat?’

‘We’ll sort it out later,’ she replies, heading out of the room.

‘Where are Dad’s car keys?’ I ask, following her.

‘In the bowl on the hallstand,’ she replies, giving me a quizzical look. ‘Are you planning on driving his car while you’re here?’

‘Well, yes.’ I’m insured to drive it and Dad certainly wouldn’t mind.

‘That car could really do with a service,’ she points out grumpily. ‘I’ve been telling Len for weeks to sort it out.’

‘I’ll organise one,’ I say. I’ll need something to do to keep me busy when I can’t see Dad. I think I’ve exhausted my reading on strokes, after downloading a
whole bunch of information from the Stroke Association website.

I now understand that a stroke is a brain attack. It happens when the blood supply to part of the brain is suddenly cut off or reduced. The brain needs nutrients and oxygen carried by the blood,
and without them, brain cells become damaged or die. As I found out when I spoke to the doctor earlier, Dad had an ischaemic stroke, caused by a blood clot.

Because Liz called an ambulance immediately, he was diagnosed quickly and deemed a candidate for thrombolysis, a procedure that uses clot-busting medicine to get a patient’s blood flow
moving again. In some cases, it can make things worse, but so far Dad has had no adverse reactions.

Even so, as the doctor explained, his recovery will be a long process of rehabilitation. He’s still experiencing some swelling in the brain, but as it subsides we should hope to see some
improvement. The ultimate aim is for him to return home and get back to living as independently as possible. He may need to acquire new skills or relearn old ones. Things that we take for granted,
like walking, talking, reading and writing, will no longer come easily to him.

Strokes are not like cancer and other diseases. There are no warning signs, no nausea or other symptoms, no time to get used to the idea of being ill. In one moment, life as you knew it is gone.
Shattered. I hope I can help Dad to pick up the pieces.

After Liz leaves, I strip to my underwear, pull down the blackout blind and climb under the mushroom-grey bedcovers on the guest bed. The room is neutral and calming, with
abstract art in shades of green, grey and blue hanging on the cream-painted walls. Liz has surprisingly good taste.

It’s the early hours of the morning in England, so I send Ned a text to let him know I’ve arrived safely and seen Dad. Then I settle down into what I hope will prove to be a deep and
dreamless sleep.

I wake feeling disoriented and aggrieved, before realising that Liz is shaking me.

‘Amber, wake up!’ she snaps, and I’m too tired to push her away. ‘If you don’t wake up now, you won’t sleep tonight,’ she warns, the weight of her body
leaving the mattress. Has she gone? Please let her be gone.

Suddenly light floods the room and I shout out with infuriation, cowering and trying to bury my face in the bedcovers. She’s only gone and put the bloody blind up.

‘Wakey, wakey!’ she says. ‘I’ve got the chicken, so throw on your clothes and come and have something to eat. You’ve been sleeping the day away.’

It doesn’t feel like I’ve been sleeping the day away. ‘What time is it?’ The sun is still so bright.

‘Six o’clock,’ she replies. ‘You’ve had three hours.’

‘Is that all?’ I’m flabbergasted. What on earth is she playing at?

‘You’ll thank me when you don’t wake up at four in the morning,’ she says arrogantly. ‘Up you get!’

‘I’ll be there in a minute!’ I practically shout at her.

She chuckles to herself as she leaves the room. Why oh why didn’t I ask Tina or Nell if I could stay with them instead?

Tina lives up in the hills, so she’s not as close to the hospital, and Nell lives in a one-bedroom flat in North Adelaide, but even her sofa might be preferable to staying here.

I sit up in bed, feeling bleary-eyed and weary to my bones. I must call Nell and Tina, actually. I sent them an email to tell them I was coming, but I didn’t want to make any promises
about catching up until I’d seen Dad. Thinking about it, Tina’s boyfriend works at a garage, so he might be able to service Dad’s car for me. Maybe I can catch up with Tina at the
same time.

I slide out of bed, drag on my clothes with heavy limbs and walk along the corridor to the kitchen. Liz is pulling apart a cooked chicken with her bare hands and the sight turns my stomach. I
should be famished. I barely ate on the plane. In fact, I’ve barely eaten in days. I slump into a chair and she brings over a platter of chicken and chips.

Does she smell of cigarette smoke? I thought she and Dad had quit.

‘What do you want to drink?’ Her question diverts me from my thoughts. ‘I got some Fruita.’

What am I, a teenager? I’m about to ask if she has any wine when she plonks a couple of cans of the fizzy, sweet drink on the table. I tentatively crack one open and take a sip, and then
my mouth starts watering and even the food looks good.

‘Okay?’ Liz asks as I tuck in.

‘Great,’ I reply with a smile.

‘Thought so.’ She sounds smug. ‘By the way, I booked Len’s car in for a service while you were asleep. I’ve got to go into work in the morning so can you drop it to
the garage at about ten? It’s only down the road so you can walk back.’

I freeze, my knife and fork hovering above my plate. ‘I said I’d sort it.’

‘I was trying to help,’ she replies defensively.

‘It’s just that my friend’s boyfriend works at a garage in the hills,’ I explain, feeling tense. ‘I thought I’d catch up with her at the same time. Kill two
birds with one stone.’

‘Cancel tomorrow’s appointment, then, I don’t care.’ She shrugs. ‘Number’s by the phone.’

I bite my lip. I’d better check with Tina first.

I call her straight after dinner, using the home phone. Liz has also given me Dad’s mobile to borrow.

A guy answers.

‘Is that Josh?’ I ask. That’s Tina’s long-term boyfriend. I’ve only met him once, at my wedding, but he seemed nice.

‘Yes?’ he replies.

‘It’s Amber,’ I tell him. ‘Tina’s mate from school.’

‘Hey!’ he says. ‘Tina said you were coming over.’

‘Yes, not for the best reason in the world, unfortunately.’

‘Man, yeah, I’m sorry about your dad,’ he says.

‘Thanks,’ I reply.

‘I’ll just get Tina for you.’ Then he shouts, ‘TEENS!’ at the top of his voice, making me cringe.

‘Actually, Josh,’ I call, before he disappears, ‘I wanted to ask you if you still work at that garage in Mount Barker? My dad’s car needs a service.’

‘I do, yes,’ he replies. ‘What does he drive?’

‘A Holden Caprice.’

‘I could squeeze you in tomorrow if you’re up this way?’

‘That’d be great. I was hoping Tina might be free for lunch.’

‘She’s working, but, hang on, here she comes.’ Pause. ‘It’s Amber,’ he says off-line and the next voice I hear is my old friend’s.

‘Hey, you!’ Even in those two words I can hear the sympathy in her voice.

‘Hey,’ I respond with a small smile.

‘I’m so sorry about Len. How is he?’

‘He’s pretty bad.’ My throat swells, but I don’t want to cry down the phone to her, so I press on. ‘Are you free for lunch tomorrow? I’m bringing Dad’s
car in for a service.’

‘Hell, yes!’

We arrange a time and end the call. It’s good to have something to look forward to.

I wake up the next morning at nine o’clock, feeling rested and refreshed. Liz has already left for work, so she’s not around to say ‘I told you so’
about my decent night’s sleep after being a Nap Nazi yesterday.

I want to visit Dad this morning before taking the car in, so I get ready quickly and hunt out his shaving kit in the bathroom. Seeing him yesterday brought back too many bad memories. It was
not just the way he sounded, but the way he looked. My earliest memories of him are as a clean-shaven, nice-smelling daddy. Then Mum died, and he completely let himself go. He went from having
warm, pleasant kisses to someone I didn’t want to kiss at all, with prickly stubble, bad breath and body odour. I didn’t just lose my mum; I lost Dad, too. I don’t want to lose
him again, not metaphorically, not literally.

It’s only a small thing, but I plan to give him a shave today. I don’t know why Liz hasn’t already.

It’s just after ten o’clock by the time I arrive at the hospital. I still feel nauseous as I traipse down the corridors, but at least I have a purpose. I pass
Dad’s doctor, coming out of another patient’s room.

‘Hello there,’ he says amiably. His name is Dr Mellan and he’s a tall, olive-skinned man in his fifties with black-and-grey hair. ‘How’s the jet lag?’

‘Not bad, thanks. How’s Dad?’

He cocks his head to one side. ‘He’s a little down today,’ he admits, nodding ahead and walking with me. ‘It’s normal to feel angry or depressed after a stroke. But
it’s important to keep a positive attitude, because negative emotions can get in the way of recovery,’ he explains.

‘I understand. I thought I might give him a shave today. Tidy him up a bit.’

‘That’s a nice idea,’ he says. ‘But don’t be too disappointed if he doesn’t react the way you might hope. Remember that it’s very frustrating for him
not to be able to do simple things for himself.’

‘Okay.’ I reply, unable to help feeling a little disheartened.

‘Keep your spirits up,’ he reminds me. ‘It’s important for you to keep a positive attitude, too.’

We reach Dad’s ward, and he comes to a stop. ‘Some advice,’ he says. ‘Speak slowly, keep your sentences simple, and leave breaks in between so he has time to digest what
you’re saying. But be careful not to talk down to him. He’s not a child.’

I nod. I’m grateful when he leads the way inside, tugging the curtain aside.