The Fence (29 page)

Gwen's April

Gwen rolls the packing tape across the top of another box and writes ‘Second Bedroom' on the tape. There are an awful lot of boxes marked ‘Second Bedroom' but there are an awful lot more that have been sent off to various charities. There is little room for memories in their apartment at Paradise Gardens.

There hadn't been any garden apartments for sale so their piece of paradise is a first floor unit with a north-facing balcony. Gwen consoles herself by planning which herbs and salad greens will grow best in pots. She might even try her hand at one of these vertical gardens that are all the rage now. Who knows what she might grow against the cream brick wall. One thing's for sure, she won't be writing about it. That part of her life, like so many others, is a closed chapter. Eric's rapid decline made the decision for her. She told Barry Henderson that after forty years it was time for her to retire. Eric's care is more important than a silly gardening column. Anyway, her career had never been more than a happy accident that fitted in neatly around family life. Now it did not fit, so it had to go.

Diane comes in carrying a box of terracotta pots. ‘You sure you don't need these, Mum?'

‘No, dear, take the lot. I'm going to keep the plastic ones.' Gwen smiles at Diane though she feels like crying.

‘We'll be the best-equipped kindy garden on the north shore,' Diane says and Gwen promptly bursts into tears.

Diane places the box on the floor. ‘Oh, Mum,' she says, wrapping an arm around Gwen's shoulder. ‘It'll be okay.'

Gwen sniffles into her handkerchief. ‘I know but my whole life is squeezed into a few boxes.'

Eric's accident is to blame. It has been a disaster on so many levels. No one knows, least of all Eric, what he was doing behind the wheel of a car in the first place. The doctor had spelled it out the week before that Eric was no longer allowed to drive. Eric had nodded, as if comprehending, but his actions made it clear that he had not understood at all. That he had driven into the wrong driveway was equally a mystery. The fence alone should have given away that he had made a wrong turn. But Eric's life is now filled with wrong turns.

‘Shall I make us a cuppa?' Diane asks once Gwen's sobs have subsided. Gwen nods, extricating herself from Diane's embrace. ‘Let's go find your father.'

Eric sits in his workshop gluing striped wallpaper to the lounge room wall of a dollhouse. They are leaving the workshop until the very last, to give Eric some continuity as the upstairs turns into a wall of packing boxes. Jonathon and Simon are going to pack up the workshop, sharing the tools before sending the rest to the Men's Shed at Turramurra where another generation might find them useful.

Gwen waits at the door and watches Diane approach Eric.

‘Dad, would you like a cuppa,' Diane asks, laying a hand on his shoulder.

‘That would be lovely, Gwennie,' he answers, turning to her with a smile.

The skin on his brow is still raw and angry where he had bumped it on the steering wheel. Otherwise, Eric escaped the accident remarkably unharmed. Unlike poor Francesca next door, Gwen thinks. ‘Come upstairs when you're finished then. I've brought a packet of Adora Cream Wafers,' she adds.

Eric claps his hands in delight. ‘They're my favourites, Gwennie. How good of you to remember.'

Diane glances at Gwen and then goes outside where Val's boys, Luke and Murray, are dismantling the snail farm. ‘Kettle's on, do you want one?' she shouts.

Luke gives her the thumbs-up.

The snails, like the chooks, are on the move. The chooks have gone to live at Gumnut Cottage. The snails were more problematic until Diane had the brainwave of calling the reptile park up the coast and asking them if they were in need of some live snails.

Gwen and Diane return upstairs and they take their tea to the sunny corner of the lounge.

‘It's funny, isn't it,' Gwen says, ‘that they went to all that trouble to build the fence and in the end it almost killed someone.'

The fence bulges at the point of impact. Eric hadn't managed to knock it down but the hardwood is cracked at the height of the bonnet as if rammed by a rampant rhinoceros.

‘Your poor trees,' Diane says.

Of the ten lollipop crab apples, less than five remain. Eric's accident had knocked over another. As he sat on the neighbours' steps after the accident, he rambled on about looking for the trees. They were his marker and they were not there. Hidden by the paling fence.

‘At the end of the day, they're only trees,' Gwen says.

Diane looks at her mother sideways. ‘No, they're not, Mum.'

Gwen nods. ‘No, they're not.'

They watch Luke and Murray roll up the shadecloth. The white buckets meant for purging the snails sit to one side, filled with the molluscs. Despite everything, Gwen can't say she's sorry to see them go.

Diane chatters away about Molly's upcoming birthday party. Gwen only half listens. She is tired. Eric crawled into bed with her again last night, seeking the comfort of her body. ‘Are we moving to the dollhouse, Gwennie?' he said, snuggling in.

Though wide awake, Gwen didn't understand what he meant at first.

‘Gwennie? Are we moving to the dollhouse at Paradise Gardens?' Eric pressed against her. ‘I like dollhouses. They have nice proportions.'

She found his hand under the sheets and squeezed it tight. ‘We'll be very happy there, Eric,' she'd said but she wasn't sure about that. They'd moved to Green Valley Avenue as newlyweds, barely able to afford this house on its barren plot. People like Val and Babs had moved in around them, all of them fresh with hope and the desire to build a community. They'd raised their children, seen those children become parents, grown old together and, one by one, started dying. Val's Keith, then Rohan, Babs last year. Poor Val was currently in hospital after fracturing her hip and the boys were already talking about whether their mum would cope in that big house with all its stairs after she comes out. Gwen had seen it all from her garden, observed the changes like seasons and now winter was coming. The last twelve months had brought so much change, so much stress, that it had broken both her and Eric. Walking away felt like admitting defeat but what else could she do? ‘They'll take me out of here in a box,' she always said. How pig-headed of her to forget that life forged its own course. She is determined to make Paradise Gardens the beginning of a new adventure.

‘Will you miss Green Valley Avenue, Eric?' she dared ask.

Eric snuggled in closer. ‘Home is where you are, Gwennie, the rest is decoration.'

Gwen smiled and pecked his forehead. ‘Go back to sleep now, Eric. We've a big day tomorrow.'

And she lay there the rest of the night, with Eric's arm over her chest, his leg over her thighs, and allowed herself the indulgence of wallowing in memory until it was time to put on the kettle.

When the removalists arrive, it takes no time at all to pack up the house. The Salvation Army had been the previous day and took most of the furniture, the books and platters that Gwen has no room for in her new life. The young chap loading the van had been ecstatic to discover Eric's wooden crate of
Popular Mechanic
magazines and Gwen could tell he was wondering if he could wrangle this particular donation for himself.

She stands on the top step and watches the van chug up the road. Diane will pick them up soon. They didn't replace the car after Eric's accident. They're on the train line at Paradise Gardens. And a lock-up garage would have cost them another forty thousand.

Gwen studies the outline of the snail farm on her lawn, listening to the children playing next door. The boy thwacks his tennis ball against the fence whilst the girls sing a duet on the karaoke machine. She can see the grandmother standing on the front porch. She looks brittle, Gwen thinks, with her lacquered French roll and her sharp clothes.

Francesca's baby was six weeks premature. Francesca and Brandon take turns going back and forth to the hospital. Gwen doesn't know much more than that.

She had popped a card in the letterbox, at night time when no one was likely to be looking. That's when she noticed that they still hadn't fixed the front gates yet. She supposed they'd been busy with the sudden arrival of number five. And the cheeky thing had the audacity to turn up on April Fool's Day. It isn't much of a joke though. As long as the baby is healthy, that's the main thing.

‘Mum, sorry I'm late. Are you ready to go?' Diane jumps out of the Volvo and runs up the stairs. ‘Where's Dad?'

Gwen looks around. ‘Do you know, dear, I'm not sure.'

Diane goes inside, her cries of ‘Dad' echoing off the empty walls, but Gwen knows she won't find him there. Instead, she goes downstairs to the dusty space where the workshop once thrived. Eric has found a scrap of sandpaper and rubs it back and forth across his thumbnail.

‘It's time to go, Eric,' Gwen says, stretching out her hand.

Eric smiles and takes her hand, pulling her into his embrace. They walk arm in arm to the car, Eric saying, ‘Are we going to the dollhouse now, Gwennie?'

Frankie's May

Frankie stands at the window watching the removal van pull out of the Hills' driveway. It is a small van, much smaller than you would expect for a couple who were the first people to live in this street. She isn't sorry to see them go but, to be fair, she isn't glad either. She can't quite put her finger on what she feels.

She knows they haven't sold their house yet. She checked on the internet. It looks less tired in the pictures than it does in real life, the selling point was always the garden. Envy, that's what it is. She is jealous that the Hills are moving and not her. Hating them as neighbours has sucked up so much energy, energy she might have put to better use investing in her marriage. Now they are going, it is time to do just that. Otherwise, what was it all for?

‘Francesca, this milk is past its use-by date,' her mother calls from the kitchen.

Frankie sighs. ‘It'll be fine, Mother. Just sniff it.'

Noelle does so with a peep of disapproval. She passes a mug of coffee to Frankie. ‘When are you due back at the hospital?'

Frankie glances at the kitchen clock. ‘In about forty minutes. I should grab a shower.'

‘Have you made up your mind what you are going to do?'

Frankie studies her mother's face. Still an attractive woman at sixty. She doesn't know for sure whether her mother indulges in a little help to maintain her youthful looks but she suspects she does. Being the perfect wife is Noelle's sole purpose.

‘It's not really a choice we get to make, Mother. The doctors will tell us their decision this morning.'

Frankie passes a hand across her face. She had snuck into the house at two o'clock this morning. The hospital staff had made her go home to sleep, saying the usual, ‘We'll call if anything changes'. Brandon is there now, one of them has to be. Frankie had spent eighteen hours by Ruby Clementine's crib, inert, numb, exhausted.

The birth had been such a shock. That pain down her side, her waters breaking. The next thing she knew she was being prepped for surgery. They wouldn't let her give birth naturally, not with three broken ribs and the baby presenting in the breech position. At birth, Ruby Clementine had weighed in at two thousand grams, below average for a baby of thirty-­four weeks gestation, but then none of Frankie's babies had been particularly big. Her survival had not been in question until she developed an infection in her leg. How Ruby got the infection, no one knew for sure. The paediatrician had said that because premature babies require a number of medical interventions – what with intravenous lines, catheters, endotracheal tubes – they run a higher risk of infection than a full-term, normal weight baby who has the added advantage of the ­protection of the mother's antibodies.

Ruby Clementine is on her third course of antibiotics but the prognosis is not good. This morning, with the latest test results to hand, the decision will be made whether to amputate the leg above the knee. It is the most terrible of choices.

‘Mummy, Mummy.' Amber bounces over and passes Frankie a sheet of paper. ‘Can you show me how to make a fish again?'

Frankie smiles down at her. ‘Sure, but just one. Mummy has to go and see Ruby Clementine.'

They sit at the kitchen bench whilst Noelle makes chicken noodle soup. The children are used to Noelle's presence now. They might not adore their grandmother but they have thawed towards her. She is a better grandmother, Frankie thinks, than she ever was a mother.

Frankie folds the fish in deft moves. It's funny how these things are coming back to her. It's as if losing her job has freed her mind. As a teenager she loved origami and, on a whim, she stopped at the art suppliers on the way home from hospital and bought a packet of origami paper.

‘When is Ruby Clementine coming home, Mummy?' Amber asks, her eyes glued to the evolving fish.

‘I'm not sure, sweetheart. When the doctors say she's well enough.'

Amber pouts. They have not spoken about the knife again but Frankie suspects that unburdening her secret has lessened Amber's anxiety. She seems less attention-seeking and more content to sit quietly, like now, and make fish out of paper. Silver is deeply upset by the Hills moving, leading Frankie to wonder whether he used to sneak over there even more than she suspects. He's been better since Frankie took the dollhouse out of the top cupboard. He is playing with it now, though with Bijoux's help, which is of course, a hindrance. Silver might benefit from having her around full-time now too. She hopes so. Something about this family dynamic has to change.

*

When Frankie arrives at the hospital, the paediatrician is waiting. His expression tells her the test results are not encouraging.

He says, ‘The infection has spread. You can see from these red streaks running up the thigh. The problem is Ruby is too young to have a fully developed immune system and, even with antibiotics, it's not enough to help her fight the infection. Removing the leg will be her best chance at survival.'

Brandon asks a whole lot of questions. He surfs the internet every moment he is home, trying to find an answer. Ever since her accident he has seemed intent on fixing things. But there is no answer. Frankie wants to shake him, tell him, just because we live in an affluent western society, babies still die. She doesn't want Ruby Clementine to die. She can survive with one leg. ‘She can see, hear, talk, think, that's all that matters, Brandon,' she had said yesterday. ‘Doctors don't tell you they are going to amputate your child's leg as a first option.'

They've met them all. The paediatrician, the paediatric orthopaedic surgeon, the paediatric radiologist, a whole team of people working to save Ruby Clementine's life. They've already told her and Brandon about all sorts of secondary medical specialists who will help Ruby walk and live a normal life. Frankie is grateful, but in the end, it is her job, Brandon's job, the children's job, to make Ruby's life as easy as possible.

‘When are you scheduling the surgery?' Frankie interrupts.

‘This afternoon.'

That soon, Frankie thinks. ‘How long will it take?'

‘My best estimate is that she will be in surgery around two hours.'

Frankie turns to Brandon. ‘We'll have to tell the children. We can't let them find out when she gets home.'

Brandon's expression is stricken. ‘I can't,' he stammers. All his actions, his stupidity, have led to this moment. He has failed all of his children but especially Ruby Clementine. That Frankie refuses to blame him only makes him feel worse.

Brandon's guilt is palpable. It's not his fault but Frankie can see why he feels as though his actions have led to this moment. God how she's hated him at times over the last two years but she can't let him take responsibility for an act of fate. That would be cruel. Frankie lays a hand on his arm. ‘I know you can't.'

She leaves then, to get coffee. She has tried every coffee shop in this hospital, navigated every nook and cranny. Her favourite is on the top floor of the private hospital, with a view over Sydney's red-tiled rooftops to the bay. She orders a large flat white and takes a doughnut as well. Then she rings her mother and shares the news.

‘Well, you won't be returning to work now,' Noelle says but without her usual nasty bite.

Frankie made that decision days ago, when the doctors first became alarmed. She'd surprised herself. There was no jerk of resistance, which is strange given work has defined Frankie's life for so long. She'd always imagined missing it, that being at home full-time with the children would be unfulfilling. She thinks of this morning, making an origami fish with Amber. A simple act filled with joy.

In the scheme of things, work is the least of her problems. Sipping her coffee, she says, ‘I'm unemployed, Mother.'

‘Brandon will have to find a job,' Noelle adds in an unforgiving tone.

Frankie knows this too but she is beyond caring what her mother thinks. Noelle has interfered in her personal life for way too long. No more.

‘You'll see,' Noelle continues, ‘Ruby will be a gift.'

A gift, Frankie thinks, as she makes her way downstairs to the ICU. As usual, she goes via the physiotherapy department. Of all people, Diane Slaughter's husband Simon is head of the department. He encourages her to visit, to see the older children. There's one girl who must be about ten years old. She wears a leg patterned in hot pink paisley. Frankie sees her laughing with her mother, relaxed and confident as she removes her prosthetic and hops onto the exercise equipment. Her mother told Frankie that the same thing happened to them. Her daughter Tamara has never known any different. And Frankie can see she is a happy, uninhibited child. Just like Ruby will be, she promises herself.

Brandon sits next to Ruby's crib, holding her tiny hand through the plexiglass window of the humidicrib. It's the only part of her not attached to a monitor, a machine to help her breathe, a tube to drip antibiotics into her system. She still looks perfect, a miniature Frankie with that thick brown hair and serene face. Holding her frail hand, how helpless he feels in the face of an invisible enemy. Powerless to make her whole again.

Frankie touches his shoulder, pretends not to see the tears caught on his cheek. ‘Go home, Brandy. I'll sit with her. Come back when she's in recovery.'

Brandon nods and takes his jacket off the back of the chair. He stands before her, shoulders slumped, his face grey with a beard that shows how this experience has aged him. Frankie embraces him, holds him there for a minute. For months she avoided his touch, now she needs it. Because, despite everything, he is the father of her children. They are still married and they are still a family. Now more than ever.

‘Have a shower, a shave, you'll feel better when you've freshened up.' She passes him a coffee and the rest of her doughnut.

After he leaves, Frankie sits in the warm chair. Ruby lies there, the ventilator hissing as it helps her breathe. She is wrapped in a flannelette blanket, only her head and one hand peeking out. Tubes run from her leg, a bandage around her hand holds the catheter in place, on her head is a hand-knitted beanie.

‘Poor little Ruby.' Frankie rests her hand on the hump of blanket. ‘You will feel much better soon. I'm going to take you home and you and I are going to have a wonderful life together. I'll never leave you, sweetheart. No matter what happens, I will never, ever leave you.'

Frankie lays her head on the edge of the crib and lets her own tears fall. It is such a relief to cry. Being strong is exhausting.